My sculptural practice is concerned with the deaths of humans and more-than-humans — the bodies that fall through the cracks of the system: children lost in wars, women to gender violence, adolescents to knife crime, miners to greed, ecosystems and bodies of water to extraction. These absences haunt me. I come to this work as a mother, a woman, and a migrant — attuned to the unbearable loss of children, the injustices carved into women’s bodies, and the dislocations of land and belonging — and as an ethical goldsmith, attuned to the scars of extraction and exploitation. These are not abstract positions, but lived realities that guide my relationship with matter.
I find meaning in transforming charged materials into physical metaphors that hold this weight. From police-confiscated knives re-forged into wearable healing rings to iron ore cast into the silhouette of a woman and her unborn child, killed in an iron mine disaster, I work with matter that matters — substances already marked by violence, memory, and grief. In the work matter is vibrant: never neutral, always alive, resistant, and full of agency. My practice resonates with feminist land art’s resistance to permanence and domination, privileging intimacy and care. I see matter not as inert material but as a collaborator — something alive to be touched, tended, and remembered, holding within it both scars and potential.
I am drawn to tension — the kind found in old fairy tales, where the witch eats the children instead of the candy. My works carry this visceral, uncanny edge. Domestic objects worn through years of use become collaborators: familiar, intimate, alive. They scale large, systemic histories down to a register we can touch — making grief palpable, making ideas physical. I believe in the seduction of craft, in its ability to lure audiences close and open them to difficult truths through tactility and beauty.
This impulse is rooted in my maternal lineage. I grew up among women who transformed matter through alchemical processes and rituals — cooking oil into soap, blood into food. Transformation was survival, and I continue that lineage in my practice. I work across sculpture, installation, and performance to channel collective histories through the intimacy of touch.
For me, making is both survival and resistance: a way to process humanity’s histories of violence and exploitation, and a way to invite others into that processing. My works open spaces where grief can be shared in different registers — sometimes through the quiet encounter with a crafted object, sometimes through collective acts of making. Through this convergence, my practice becomes a place where ritual, matter, and memory remain inseparable, and where grief and resilience are held in tension.”