I'm a multidisciplinary artist working in light, sound, and textile sculpture, all pointed at the same question: how does the body sense its environment, and how can art slow that sensing down.

That question started over two decades ago in the corporate design world, where I came to believe creative work carries a responsibility to change things for the better, not just make them look good. That belief took me through client work combining data science, human-centered design, and rapid prototyping to bring strategy into real, touchable form, and later into leading Louisville's interaction design community, where our public space work was recognized by the city for its role in downtown revitalization.

That instinct now shapes my installations. My light and sound work uses brainwave entrainment, specific rhythms, colors, and patterns built to synchronize the body's own rhythms with what's around it and ease visitors into a meditative state. One piece, LightFall, stretched a quarter mile end to end. I stayed involved with the commissioning organization and community from early planning through teardown, at every stage of the piece's life. I've shown this work internationally, including at the Van Abbe Museum in the Netherlands and the Anchorage Museum in Alaska, where I built a multi-channel soundscape with a local sound ecologist for a climate change symposium.

The same question carries into my textile work: large-scale sculptures made from wet felted wool, built entirely by hand, fiber by fiber, from locally sourced, eco-conscious materials. The process is slow and physical, and that pace is part of the work, not separate from it.

I've spoken publicly about this practice, including at CODA Summit in San Jose in 2023. Sustainability and material honesty run through everything I make, across every medium.

None of this started as theory. It started on the floor of my studio, prototyping a light sculpture with my sound designer, chasing a feeling I could only describe as relief. He built a soundscape around a low, steady frequency close to the Earth's own resonance, and neither of us realized until later that we'd stumbled onto something real: the brain's tendency to synchronize with the rhythms around it. That accident became a practice. The more I make this work, the more I believe what traditional cultures have known for millennia and the modern world has mostly forgotten: we are calmer, more open, and more ourselves when we're in sync with the Earth. That's what I'm making room for, one piece at a time.