The Space Between

There’s something peaceful about the ocean at night.
You can hear it — endless, certain — even if you can’t see it.
That’s what this chapter feels like.
Grounded, but fleeting.
Calm, but filled with wonder.

For the first time in a long time, floating feels okay.
I’ve spent most of my life searching — for safety, clarity, direction.
But lately I’ve learned that you can’t always see what’s ahead,
and maybe that’s the whole point.

The unknown used to scare me.
Now it feels like possibility.
Like standing at the edge of something new,
without the need to name it yet.

Most days, it’s the smaller things that keep me grounded —
being in my home, a space I’ve turned into my own kind of sanctuary.
The sound of soju’s paws on the floor when I walk through the front door,
the light that drifts across the walls in the early morning,
music filling each room while I move through them,
alone but not lonely — just whole.
That’s when I feel the most like me, the most like myself.

I’m learning to break my old patterns.
To respect myself enough to give myself what I want.
To wait for the kind of connection that feels like a spotlight right over me —
To be seen— not just for who I am, but for who I’m becoming.
Someone who knows their worth and can recognize mine.

I can be calm, but it takes work.
There are walls, and I know where they come from.
I’m still learning how to be soft again.
There was a time when softness came easily for me —
when I led with it.
I miss that version of myself sometimes.
And yet, I know he’s still here —
quietly waiting beneath the surface.

What roots me now is quieter than it used to be.
It’s not a person or a plan —
it’s trust.
Faith.
The quiet knowing that I’ve survived enough to understand I’ll always be okay.
I know myself — the strength, the softness, the way I rise.
And that’s enough.

There’s a deep peace in that kind of faith —
the kind that doesn’t ask for proof,
only presence.

So I float.
Somewhere between where I’ve been and where I’m going —
listening for the sound of the waves in the dark,
reminding me that even when I can’t see what’s next,
I’m still being carried.

Because the space between isn’t empty after all —
it’s moonlight on dark water.
The quiet shimmer that reminds me
that even in the deepest night,
a small patch of light can guide me home.

xx

The Art of Becoming

there’s a version of me i really miss.
soft. open. someone who let people in.
someone who didn’t always feel the need to protect everything.

he’s still in there somewhere.
i just don’t let him come out as much.
not because i don’t want to —
but because i don’t know how safe it is anymore.

life changed that.
hurt changed that.

i’m more grounded now. more clear.
but also… more closed.
i think that happens when you’ve survived things people don’t know about.

everyone has always famously said to me when things get tough — “you’ll figure it out. you always do.”
and i do.
but i’m tired of being the one who holds it all together.
the one who carries the weight and makes it look good. like i’m not constantly hurdling mountains... or trying at least.
no one really sees what it takes to be me. does anyone really see what it takes to be you?

i’ve been on my own since i was 18.
and for a long time, that never felt lonely.
but lately… it does.

choosing yourself, doing the work, not settling — it’s good.

it’s right.
but it’s also fucking isolating.
no one talks about that part.

i’ve been thinking about all the versions of me i’ve left behind.
some i chose to let go of.
others — i think they just disappeared along the way. 

I keep everything— all the letters of my past lovers, the plane tickets for those special trips, the concert tickets that held guarantee to the nights i’ll never forget. all the photographs from places and people who have passed through my life.

i have it all and i constantly look back and wonder who that boy was that has now grown into a man. who is that person now that i used to love so much, and use to love me too. i guess you can say i’m nostolgic. its in my blood

i’m doing the best i can. really.
but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel like i’m failing sometimes.
i miss the version of me who believed in love.
who thought everything would work out just because i wanted it badly enough.
i don’t feel like that anymore.

i want to be held.
not because i’m weak.
but because i’ve been strong for too long.

i miss being soft.
i miss being loved while being soft.
i don’t want to have to explain myself all the time.
i don’t want to perform my pain.
i just want someone to see me for me.

i still show up.
i still create.
i still become.

but i carry all of it.
every past version.
every quiet ache.
every part of me no one else has stayed long enough to understand.

that’s the weight of becoming.

and right now,

i’m carrying it with both hands.

A Love Letter to New York

October always brings it back.

There’s something about the way the air feels that reminds me why I came here. It’s not just the temperature— it’s something internal. In my body, October feels like love. Like the first time you meet someone and you can’t get enough of them. That giddy, glowing, stomach-warm rush of something unknown but good. The beginning of possibility. And that’s what New York has always felt like to me.

I moved here in October, 14 years ago. I had just turned nineteen. I didn’t have much thought out, and I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I needed to be here. I landed under a modeling contract, got dropped into the middle of the city with no time to adjust. It was dozens of castings a day, trains, new people and things I had only seen in movies. Only nothing about this felt like a movie — it felt like real life. Fast, chaotic, honest. And for the first time, I felt like I was really living.

I moved into a model apartment in Williamsburg with 5 other kids all of us from different places in the world but the same dreams. 

Those early days were beautiful in a wild, unstructured way. I was alone, but not lonely. Just a kid navigating this huge city by instinct — taking it all in and trying to become someone. I remember walking through streets lit by neon lights, air heavy with autumn, trees burning with color I’d never seen growing up in California.

That shift from West Coast to East changed everything. It made me feel things more deeply. It made me believe in my own potential.

After only being in New York for a couple of weeks I quietly, almost without realizing it, started creating. Not just surviving — expressing. The way I walked, the way I dressed, the way I listened, learned & loved so easily then. The way I saw things not just for what they are but what they once were and what they will be.

New York was the first place that demanded honesty from me and gave me a language for it through art. It taught me how to translate emotion into form. To turn memory into something tangible.

Every piece of art I’ve ever made since has been shaped by this place — the rhythm of it, the sharpness, the shadows, the stillness between noise. My work was born here because I was born here, in a different way.

Over the years, I’ve built a life here. I’ve grown here. I’ve fallen in love — deeply — and I’ve lost people too. Some of the greatest loves of my life happened here.

Some of the best friendships I’ve ever had. And yes… I still think about the ones I’ve parted ways with. The ones I loved, the ones I hurt, the ones who slipped away without explanation. If I loved you, if I knew you, I carry you. No matter how it ended.

New York gave me the dreams I used to whisper to myself as a kid. Every single thing I hoped for — I lived it. I am living it. And still at 33 years of age, I’m learning how to dream again. Not from the pressure to prove anything, but because I know now that reinvention is always available to me. That I can keep becoming. That I can keep creating.

This city has never been easy, but it’s always been honest. It has stretched me, shaped me, and at times brought me to my knees. But it’s also where I found my strength. Where I built something from nothing. Where I found my voice — not just in words, but in form, material, and process.

Where I began making things that felt like truth.

This is my love letter to New York.

Thank you for being the place I grew up in — and the place I keep coming back to.

Thank you for giving me everything, even when I thought I had nothing.

You made me who I am —
as a person, as a maker, as an artist.

And I’ll always love you for it.

The Remains of a Memory

I’ve always been obsessed with scent. Not just the obvious kind — a candle, a perfume, a glass of wine — but the smaller, stranger ones. The way plaster smells when it’s drying in the studio. The faint sweetness of rain on hot pavement. Even the way my closet carries the weight of my fragrance long after I’ve left. 

Scent is the most intimate form of memory. A smell can take you back to a moment you thought you had forgotten. I’ll catch the trace of a simple scent in the street and suddenly I’m nineteen again, walking through the East Village on a summer night, the whole city wet from a storm. The scent of burning palo santo and again, finding myself back in an old apartment I haven’t lived in for years, romanticising who I’ve been and who I will become. 

What makes scent feel so personal is how it ties to people. The shirt you once buried your face in. The pillow that still smelled like someone days after they left. Even years later, the memory lives there — hidden in your body, waiting for the right reminder. No photograph or song does that in quite the same way.

One of the strongest reminders for me is the smell of the sea in the air, mixed with the sweet scent of summer coconut— Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil, to be exact. My mother used it religiously every summer, all summer long. I grew up by the coast in California, so it was technically summer about 10 months out of the year, but that slightly sweet coconut scent became the backdrop of my childhood days by the ocean, wet sand clinging to my skin, the air heavy with salt. When I smell it now, I’m not just reminded of the coast or the place that raised me, but I think of her. I see her stretched out in the sun, hair pulled up, warm and content, the first human I ever loved. That scent still follows me, whether I’m anywhere near the ocean or on a beach far across the world. It always brings me home.

Teakwood — another scent that’s stayed with me. It takes me back to the first place I ever shared with someone I loved. Our love — clumsy, imperfect — scent was the first thing we placed in our apartment, a house we made into a home. That scent became the atmosphere of our lives. After we broke apart, I think I blocked it out. The smell of teakwood didn’t register for years, as if ignoring the scent could erase the memory of us. I did it without acknowledgment. 

But one day, years later, there it was. The sharpness of teakwood in the air stopped me cold. Suddenly, I was back in that apartment, back in late summer fading into fall, back in the glow of something young and innocent. It wasn’t a flood of memories — it was just one, clear and undeniable. Him. Me. Us. The silence of that moment was almost unbearable. It stung, but it also reminded me of who I was then, and how much of that person still lives inside me.

This is why scent and art belong together. Both are about memory, both are about emotion. A deep colored painting, a perfectly imperfect surface, a curved vessel — they don’t just decorate a room, they shift its atmosphere. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they carry you back to a version of yourself you thought you’d forgotten.

Sometimes I wish I could return to those moments — the kid chasing waves, the person who thought love was as simple as lying together in a field of grass where time felt endless, but I can’t. Scent gives me a way to visit. And through my work, I hope to create the same for others: fragments that stop the world for a moment, and bring you back to exactly where you once were. 

xx

The Shape of Fragile Things

How does it feel?

It’s a question I keep circling back to — not to solve anything, but to notice. To pay attention to the small shifts, the textures of a moment that would otherwise disappear. Lately, I’ve been thinking about time. How fast it’s been moving, how quietly it slips through the cracks of my days. Hours blur into evenings, weeks into months, and suddenly another year has folded itself behind me.

It feels fleeting, almost fragile — like I’m living faster than I can hold onto.

Maybe that’s why fragments matter so much. They slow me down. They hold pieces of a moment in place when everything else insists on moving forward. A page torn from a book, the light that floods a room at the same hour each day, the way music from another time can pull you back instantly. Fragments anchor me. They remind me that not everything vanishes at the same speed.

My work mirrors this. It isn’t about permanence or completion. It’s about presence — about what’s alive in a surface, a texture, a pause. What I once saw as imperfections I’ve begun to recognize as records: proof that something has passed through, left a trace, and changed what was there before.

Fragments don’t lie. They tell you where something was touched, where it shifted, where it resisted. They carry the weight of what happened and the space of what hasn’t yet. If everything before this moment was about beginning, this feels like standing still long enough to sense the current of time moving around me.

Not to stop it — but to notice it. To let myself feel what it means to exist inside a moment that won’t return.

How does it feel to live in a time that moves too quickly to name? How does it feel to carry pieces forward, even when the whole won’t last?

To me, it feels like surrender. Like loosening my grip on permanence and trusting that even fleeting things leave their mark. It feels like remembering that beauty doesn’t come from holding on forever, but from noticing what is here — now—before it changes. It feels like learning to let fragments be enough.

xx

Welcome to Feelings Fragments

This is the part of my studio that doesn’t hang on a wall or ship to a collector. It’s the part that lives in notebooks, in late-night thoughts, in quiet observations I’ve never really had a place to put before. If Works and Commissions show what I make, this is where I leave what I feel.

I’ve lived in New York for over a decade, and in that time, the city has shaped me and undone me, often in the same breath. I’ve built, broken, reassembled, and started over more times than I can count. My work — sculptural, textured, imperfect — carries those echoes. The cracks, the surfaces, the weight and stillness of plaster and stone all feel like pieces of me.

Feelings has always been more than a name to me — it’s a way of seeing. It’s always been about the space in between — the silence, the atmosphere, the feeling you can’t quite name but know in your bones.

It’s the quiet in-between moments, the textures that pull you in, the weight of stillness that makes you notice yourself.

This space is where I share fragments of my world. Art, objects, interiors, rituals — all shaped by the question: how does it feel?

Art, for me, has never been just about objects or images. it’s a place to hold the things that don’t fit anywhere else: thoughts that arrive at midnight, moments that stay with me long after they’ve passed, the kind of rawness that doesn’t need polish.

Beauty isn’t just something you look at; it’s something you sense.

A cracked surface, the way light bends across stone, the atmosphere in a room when scent, sound, and form align. That’s where the real story lives.

Here you’ll find glimpses of my process, pieces of work in motion, and the inspirations that surface along the way. Not polished to perfection, but alive — imperfect in the ways that make them human.

So this is Entry One.

The first trace of something more personal, more vulnerable. A beginning, but not one I’ve over-designed. Just me, here, leaving a piece of myself with you.

If you’re reading this, it means you’ve stepped into the part of my studio that is closest to my heart.

Welcome in.

Echoes of Memory

There’s something about the sound of the 80s that lingers— raw guitars, voices cracking through reverb, a kind of yearning pressed into every note. It feels comfortably nostalgic, but not in a way that belongs only to the past. For me, it’s always been the soundtrack to growing up, the backdrop to so many moments that shaped me.

This music has carried me through different chapters of my life — from the quiet nights when I needed to feel less alone, to the louder ones where everything felt electric and infinite. It’s woven into who I am, a reminder that the sounds we create now are always connected to what came before us.

That’s why this feels like the perfect first post to begin here. 80s music is more than a genre to me; it’s a living archive of memory, courage, and inspiration. These songs remind me that people before us were always searching, always pushing sound into new places. That kind of spirit is what inspires me to keep creating today.

This playlist is a small archive of that feeling — restless, alive, and always searching.

xx