I rely on my sense of touch to inform my decisions about objects—it gives me vital information, guides my perception, and engages my muscles. I love creating textures and surfaces that invite people to reach out and touch something intriguing. My goal is to challenge the notion that art can’t be touched. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting I’ll be wandering through a museum touching all the paintings (I’d probably get arrested for that). What I’m really talking about is this unspoken stigma that surrounds art: the idea that it’s fragile, untouchable, even intimidating. There’s a romantic notion behind handmade objects, especially when they’re used in everyday life. Take a handmade bowl, for example—placing food into it doesn’t just serve a practical purpose, it enhances the experience, making it more personal and meaningful.

Growing up, I was fortunate to have parents who made family dinners a priority, without fail, every night at 6. Did I appreciate it then? Definitely not. But as I look back, I realize those moments around the dinner table were more than just meals—they were where we celebrated accomplishments, grieved losses, laughed at mistakes, and helped each other through hard times. We had our share of heated arguments, too, but no matter how upset we were, eventually hunger would bring us all back together in the kitchen. The dinner table became a meeting place, a space for connection—even when we weren’t particularly excited to be there.

In short, my work is inspired by food and the well-worn dining table. Together, they create moments—big and small, joyful and sorrowful—that shape us. Every moment counts, and for me, that’s what makes life—and art—meaningful.