I come from a long line of painters, drawers, seamstresses, and quilters. When I moved to Astoria, Oregon four years ago, I pared down my belongings — and found myself intrigued by what remained: my great-great-grandmother's ancient treadle sewing machine, a feed sack quilt made by my great-grandmother, an intricate hand-stitched quilt by my mother, and my father's sailmaker's seaming palm. Together, these objects told a quiet story of comfort, utility, protection, and beauty passed down through generations by the humble needle and thread.

That realization transformed my work.

Astoria itself played no small part. This quirky, storied town sits at the majestic convergence of river, mountains, and ocean — a place that feels ancient and alive. Its character seemed to speak the same language as those inherited objects: layered, weathered, full of history and inextricably connected to nature.

Painting and drawing remain at the heart of what I do, but I now work into and onto textiles rather than canvas alone. Fabric carries time in a way that paint alone cannot — in a worn edge, an eccentric print, a careful stitch. I'm drawn to reclaimed and repurposed materials, believing that objects absorb the energy of the hands that used them. When something is given new life rather than discarded, that accumulated history doesn't disappear — it deepens. My work explores that inheritance: the making traditions of women and working people, the stories embedded in ordinary materials, and the way reuse connects us to something larger than ourselves.