The Quiet Weight of Remembering

they say that the brain holds onto what mattered most. that feeling is stored long after moments pass.

I guess if that’s true then I am a museum of everything i’ve ever loved.
not the objects themselves — but the residue they left behind.

I’m drawn to things that are meant to be kept. to what survives after the moment is gone. The work I make is shaped by a feeling older than the work itself. Nostalgia 

nostalgia is the most beautiful form of pain.

it doesn’t ask permission. it arrives softly, then lingers. to have a past worth missing is a gift, even when it aches. it means you lived inside moments that shaped you, moments that stayed long enough to leave a mark.

nostalgia is just homesickness for a time that no longer exists and i think, quietly, everyone is homesick. watching people reach back toward 2016 — toward simplicity, toward a version of life that felt slower — it isn’t about the year. it’s about wanting to feel held by time again.

time moves too fast to be understood while you’re inside it. it’s only in retrospect that it becomes heavy. one day you realize that you, your brother, your sister — you will never be children under the same roof again. that truth lands slowly, then all at once. it’s painful. so we do what we’ve learned to do with pain: we compartmentalize it. we store it. we move forward carrying more than we realize.

the more you lose, the more nostalgia returns. not to punish you — but to remind you. to keep a record. to say: this mattered. this shaped you. this is why you feel so deeply now.

this is where my work begins. not with an image or an idea, but with a feeling that refuses to dissolve.

i’m drawn to materials that hold pressure, that crack, that settle, that remember. like memory, they resist perfection. they show time. they reveal where force has been applied.

i’m not interested in recreating the past. i’m interested in translating what remains. the quiet weight of love. the imprint of absence. the tension between holding on and letting go. my work is an attempt to give those feelings a body — something they can live inside instead of haunting quietly.

there is beauty in knowing you can’t have it again. that finality is what gives today its urgency. what makes presence feel sacred. if everything were repeatable, nothing would feel as precious.

they say that at the end, the brain gives you seven minutes — a final return. a soft rewind. seven has always followed me. the month i was born. the times i’ve had to begin again. the times i’ve been in love. repetition has a way of turning into meaning when you’re paying attention.

maybe this is what art is for.
to hold what can’t be revisited.
to give form to what time takes.

to honor feeling as something physical, fragile, and enduring.

xx