Things that look perfect when they are large become shockingly imperfect under a microscope. Even straight lines have gaping fissures along their edges under careful focus.
How can perfection exist when our perceptions of it are constantly shifting from near to far? No matter how much we corset, bind, sanitize, and deodorize, chaos remains our natural state.
I am interested in how much people don't know, how much we are fumbling in the dark. I celebrate that seeming chaos, but at the same time chase those threads that bind us together as we seek understanding of our existence. Is it math? Is it spirit? I'm looking for resonance in my work and style.