My practice centers on the act of preservation—of memory, of labor, and of image—in an age when all three are under threat. Each piece begins with a source image, often pulled from my personal photo archive or given to me by others: intimate snapshots of people, moments, and places I’m trying not to forget. Others are borrowed from the broader image economy—press photos, art historical works, cultural icons—each chosen for its emotional, visual, or symbolic resonance. Injecting paint into bubble wrap cell by cell, I construct pixelated photo-realist images that appear digital at a distance but are in fact intensely physical. This painstaking process foregrounds time, control, and decay—inviting viewers to consider how we see, remember, and attempt to hold onto things.

My work is structured around a conceptual triad: the Injection, the Impression, and the Reflection. The Injection is the primary act—the literal painting made by filling each bubble. The Impression is formed by the paint that bleeds through and congeals behind the surface, creating an unplanned but no less intentional second piece. The Reflection is where I step back and observe—through mirrors, distortions, or surface alterations—how meaning slips or repeats. These three modes together function like a family: the Injection (the father) is deliberate, structured; the Impression (the mother) is receptive, residual, and generative; the Reflection (the child) is observational, shaped by both but looking forward. This structure is not symbolic but procedural—mapping how I understand memory to operate, not just as a theme, but as a material.

Much of my recent work reinterprets Old Master paintings—Velázquez, Vermeer, Rembrandt—not out of nostalgia, but to critique how classical images are now consumed: compressed, flattened, and decontextualized online. By translating these works into a labor-intensive analog grid, I force the viewer to slow down, to reconsider the stakes of looking. I don’t alter the compositions, but I do reframe them—showing how something revered can become illegible through overexposure. In the same breath, I use mundane, sometimes pixelated personal photos to elevate the overlooked. Across all sources, the goal is the same: to trap something before it dissolves. To give form to impermanence. To insist, through physical means, that memory still matters—even if the medium leaks.