There is a kind of quiet that falls when one is in front of a sculpture that appears older than it should be. Not because of its age of construction, but in the way it holds time. Cracks, rough clay edges, oxide washes that seep into crevices like riverbed silt. These scars speak. They suggest a presence that is not fresh. They whisper touch, weathering, and memory…

In the quiet of my studio, clay doesn't respond in words but in form with surfaces that may draw out the flush of a soft wash, the stretch of a cut edge, or the deliberate surge of a ridge against a leading finger. Surface is not merely ornament; it's tone, mood, and unspoken feeling brought into material…