Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame

152.4 × 91.44 cm (60 x 36 in)

A machine rests after its task has ended. Its form carries the compression of labor, the accumulation of contact with the ground, and the load.

Paint peels. Metal oxidizes. Dirt embeds itself into every joint. These marks do not indicate failure, but duration, the evidence of sustained use rather than collapse.

The object no longer moves earth, yet it continues to register having done so.
Its presence is not commemorative.
It remains as a record of effort once applied and no longer required.

LOG 01 View log

Oil on three hinged cradled wood panels

243.84 × 121.92 cm (96 x 48 in)

Some processes unfold without a witness. They begin quietly, intensify briefly, and disperse without appeal.

Each panel records a stage held just long enough to be recognized, then released. Growth, flare, and dispersal proceed without negotiation. The wind does not pause. It does not recover what it takes.

This is not a sequence of loss, but of inevitability. What passes through the cycle does not return to its previous form.

What is retained here is the interval, the moment before separation becomes irreversible.

LOG 02 View log

Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame
121.92 × 121.92 cm (48 x 48 in)

An embrace is maintained after its counterpart has already vanished. What remains is posture, pressure, and the memory of weight.

Bone replaces flesh. The body leans anyway.

This is not a movement toward something new, but the continuation of a gesture whose purpose has already passed. The figure persists in time with what is no longer present, maintaining the form of intimacy after its function has ended.

What is recorded here is duration. The moment when holding becomes the act itself.

LOG 03 View log

Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame

121.92 × 121.92 cm (48 x 48 in)

Moth wings break into dust before they reach the soil.

There is no distinction between a quiet breath and the last flight of a moth.

Roots gather, not in cruelty,
not in kindness.

Nothing here hesitates.
The system continues.

LOG 04 View log

Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame

121.92 × 121.92 cm (48 x 48 in)

A polished surface bears a brief appraisal. Mileage reduced to shorthand. Condition summarized in two words.

The vehicle stands elevated by appearance, while the ground beneath records a slower measure, growth, encroachment, and time accumulating without concern for presentation.

The work holds the tension between surface and duration, between what is displayed and what is lived. A lifetime of movement is flattened into a transaction, its complexity absorbed by polish.

What remains unspoken continues beneath the shine.

LOG 05 View log

Oil on panel, gold leaf, skateboard bearings, 3 electric motors, drive belts, and wood

83.82 X 127 cm (33 x 50in) Cabinet 203.2 X 96.52 X 25.4 cm (80 x 38 x 10 in)

In collaboration with Justin Ramsden

A face assembles, disassembles, and assembles again. Each panel moves independently, never fully synchronized.
The image resolves briefly, then fractures. Recognition occurs as an event rather than a condition.
Once per cycle, the portrait becomes legible. Then the mechanism resumes.

The figure remains present throughout. What fails is not the body, but alignment.
Time here is mechanical, repetitive, and indifferent to recovery.
The system does not remember. It only repeats.

What is lost does not disappear at once. It leaves incrementally, through motion, delay, and misfire.
The person remains. The knowing recedes.

Remembering Her Forgetting attempts to visually document the slow loss of Lucy. As she slipped from us and her personality fractured, the absence accumulated. What was lost did not vanish all at once; it left gradually, repeatedly, and with slow finality.

The portrait is composed of 320 custom-designed, 3D printed components and 162 precision bearings, a fully engineered mechanical architecture concealed behind paint.

It's 54 panels rotate on 54 unique gear ratios, dispersing the image into a complex, non-repeating field of fragments before returning to imperfect alignment.

If driven forward continuously, the system would require a timespan vastly exceeding the age of the universe to naturally return to the same configuration.

The diffusion is not accidental.

It is mathematically non-repeating.

LOG 06 View log

Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame

91.44 x 60.96 cm (36 x 24 in)

An old axe rests embedded in a stump, its handle split where force and time have met repeatedly. The flaw is visible, acknowledged, and ignored. Though dangerous to use, the tool remains in service, sustained by habit and the quiet belief that what has always worked will continue to do so.

The work considers persistence not as heroism, but as continuity practiced beyond reason. The axe is no longer an instrument of action alone; it becomes a record of deferred reckoning. Repair is possible, replacement is available, yet neither occurs. Instead, the object stands as evidence of an argument mounted against certainty itself, an insistence that function can outlast failure, and that the inevitable can be postponed through use.

In An Argument Against the Inevitable, resistance is not dramatic. It is ordinary, familiar, and quietly dangerous.

LOG 07View log

Chiffon, wood, dye, metal rods, resin, acrylic paint

243.84 X 121.92 x 86.36 (96 x 48 x 34 in)

Two human forms are suspended on parallel planes of chiffon.

The upper body is rendered in pale pigment.
The lower body is rendered in dark pigment.

Both are incomplete when viewed from any single angle.
Full legibility requires movement.

Air alters their alignment.
Distance fluctuates.
Contact does not occur.

One figure appears to rise.
One appears to settle.

The structure holding them remains fixed.
The bodies do not.

Gravity is present in both directions.

The meat knows freedom comes only when the dirt wins.

LOG 08View log

silk, cyanotype, silver point, graphite, acrylic paint, wood

35.56 x 35.56 cm (14 x 14 in)

LOG 09View log

silk, cyanotype, silver point, graphite, acrylic paint, wood

35.56 x 35.56 cm (14 x 14 in)

LOG 010View log

silk, cyanotype, silver point, graphite, acrylic paint, wood

35.56 x 35.56 cm (14 x 14 in)

LOG 011 View log

silk, cyanotype, silver point, graphite, acrylic paint, wood

35.56 x 35.56 cm (14 x 14 in)

LOG 012 View log

Mixed media installation

181.102 H x 54.61 D x 60.96 W (71.3h x 21.5d x 24w in)

In collaboration with Justin Ramsden

This is your future

It is everyone and everything’s future

For the living must die

What do you see when the past stares back at you, and how do you face the inevitable when it’s presented as a cold truth?

A relic of bygone carnivals, Madame Seraphina stands as a specter from a forgotten era. Her animated gaze offers not fortune but a cold reminder of the inescapable fate shared by all. As visitors approach, her head tilts and swivels, eyes darting with a lifelike eeriness, and her mouth opens and closes, offering a glimpse into the mechanical soul within. With each movement, she draws the viewer deeper into her unsettling presence.

The card, bearing only this stark truth, links the viewer to an impersonal finality, ushered forward by the whir of her mechanical limbs. Beneath the veneer of the old-time carnival aesthetic, Madame Seraphina invites a confrontation with mortality. Her face, sculpted in silicone, remains frozen in a timeless expression, reflecting the silent inevitability that looms over us all. The QR code on the reverse side connects to her cryptic, digital presence, further emphasizing the stark dichotomy between the physical and virtual, between the human and the mechanical.

In this interactive piece, the viewer is not simply an observer but a participant in a fleeting moment of engagement with fate. Madame Seraphina’s message is not one of comfort, but of a reminder, delivered in the chilling embrace of nostalgia, that all things come to an end.

Inspired by the great automata of the past, this work merges invention and sculpture.

Beneath its theatrical exterior lies an eight-axis robotic system, fully self-designed and fabricated.

It is not a restoration or reproduction, but a contemporary machine constructed from an original design.

LOG 013View log

 Altered Book, ink, resin, oil paint, acrylic paint, plastic flies, crow feather, wood

21.59 x 15.24cm (8.5 x 6 in)

“Beneath the bone, a name unspoken. Beneath the name, a spell not yet broken.”

The sightless witness is sealed within a reliquary, locked in refusal at the hollowed core of a book. Cast in resin, the crow skull is surrounded by scattered remnants, ash from the removed pages, their words forever silenced. Beneath the skull is embedded a text drawn from imagined scripture and scorched myth, speaking to what burns inward: rage, memory, refusal.

The skull does not scream, but watches. The pages do not speak, but hold. What could not rest, could not yield, remains.

A monument to the fire that endures beneath stillness, preserving what the world tries to bury: grief, fury, and the fragile trace of flight.

A crow skull is sealed within the hollowed body of a book. Pages have been removed, burned, and compressed into residue.

The remaining text is fragmented and illegible, embedded rather than read. The skull does not perform as a symbol or a warning. It occupies a position of continued presence.

The object holds what could not be discarded. Refusal persists without declaration.

What remains is not speech, but containment.

LOG 014View log

Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame

50.8 × 50.8 cm (20 × 20 in)

A vessel designed to interrupt friction.
To extend function.
To delay failure.

The spout is dry. The body retains only residue, dark and persistent. The object no longer performs its task, but it continues to register having done so.

What remains is not motion, but maintenance. A record of attention applied quietly, repeatedly, and without recognition.

The can endures beyond usefulness, holding evidence of service rendered one careful gesture at a time.

LOG 015 View log

Resin, acrylic, vintage photos, wood

30.48 x 21.59 x 38.1 cm (12 x 8.5 x 15 in)

The base carries the weight of stone.

It stands in for a marker, the kind that arrives sooner than we expect.

Above it, a translucent head holds fragments of inheritance, photographs suspended within the cranial cavity. Memory remains visible, but it cannot be touched or rearranged. It is fixed in place.

A single clear rod separates the head from the concrete. It is thin. Nearly invisible. It does not suggest strength.

The work rests on that narrow allowance.

At a certain age, the distance between self and stone shortens. What once felt abstract becomes spatial. Measurable.

The head appears to float. It does not. It is balanced above what waits.

The rod marks the fragile interval between presence and absence.

LOG 016 view log

Resin, wood

30.48 x 21.59 x 20.32 cm (12 x 8.5 x 8 in)

A cast skull rests on a cement base within a wooden tray.
The tray is engraved with a skeletal figure.

The skull is translucent.
Its interior is visible.

Within the cranial cavity lies a small, nearly formed fetus.
Blue. Suspended. Intact.

Not a thought.
Not a metaphor of possibility.
A body.

The container implies a conclusion.
The interior holds a continuation.

The fetus is developed enough to be undeniable,
too formed to be dismissed as imagination,
too contained to enter the world.

The materials fix both conditions in place.
Death remains structural.
Birth remains enclosed.

No sequence clarifies which comes first.
The skull becomes both vault and womb.
The object holds what should not coexist,
origin secured inside its own aftermath.

LOG 017View log

Resin, acrylic, vintage photos, wood

22.86 x 21.59 x 38.1 cm (9 x 8.5 x 15 in)

The concrete reads as a marker.

It is meant to.

The head above it is clear but not empty. Photographs are suspended inside, fragments of lives already receding. They cannot be handled. They cannot be reassembled.

Two slender rods extend from the eyes, defining the direction of sight. They measure what can still be seen.

The work does not suggest escape. The head is already aligned with the stone.

It suggests something else: that even when the end becomes visible, the act of looking persists.

LOG 018 View log

Oil on cradled wood panel, framed in a shadowbox frame
20.32 × 25.4 cm (8 × 10 in)

The early morning ritual is no longer performed. The calloused hands laid down the edge one final time. What remains is the quiet evidence of repetition, a task done daily without notice or audience. Face and mirror, water and steel, the same movements carried out until one morning they were not.

LOG 019View log

Watercolour on paper, 3D printed mechanisms, plaster of Paris, powdered pigment, gouache, reclaimed wood

In collaboration with Justin Ramsden

What do you step on to move forward? What will you leave behind when you’re gone?

We walk forward only by treading on what came before. Beneath our feet lie the bones of those who carried us this far, their labour, their mistakes, their silence. Time does not preserve them; it erodes them, grinding memory into the substance that supports us. Even as they fracture, their weight endures.

To look ahead, the viewer must first crush what remains of the past. The plaster skulls underfoot break with each step, their sound echoing the quiet violence of progress. Above, within a worn, two-toned hooded mechanism, eight small watercolours revolve, a mechanical meditation on the life of a dandelion, from bloom to drift to disappearance.

The work is not about death, but continuity, the uneasy inheritance of what has been broken to make room for what comes next. Each step toward the future presses down on what was once living. The dust that rises is what connects us still.

LOG 020 View log