I move between two disciplines that were never as separate as we've been taught to believe. Biology gave me the discipline of watching — long hours spent simply observing before any conclusion was allowed to form. We know things fall before we understand gravity. We know rain falls before we understand condensation. Long before certainty, there is only attention — and I learned to trust that.

Art gave me a second instrument, tuned to registers that measurement cannot reach. Where biology asked me to observe without projecting, art asks me to feel without simplifying — to resist turning a living thing into a symbol, and to resist turning a complicated truth into a single tidy voice. Both disciplines, in their own way, are asking me to look longer before I decide what I'm looking at.

I work at the intersection of these languages because the problems I care about — wicked, tangled, socio-ecological — refuse a single vantage point.

I work at the intersection of these languages because the problems I care about — wicked, tangled, socio-ecological — refuse a single vantage point. Compress the universe's whole history into a single year, and humans arrive in the final ten seconds of December 31st. We are a speck of dust with a long memory, floating between sky and ground, and every perspective we hold is borrowed from the environment around us. That scale doesn't diminish me — it clarifies what I'm looking for: the bridge between science and art, and everything in between it.

My camera exists to stand at that bridge — to trace the moment my path crosses another's, and to ask, without answering, what actually passed between us. I don't believe in dramatic conversions. I believe in the brook, not the flood — the quiet accumulation of attention paid, gently and repeatedly, over years. If my work does anything, I hope it's this: that it makes interconnectedness feel less like a scientific claim and more like a felt truth, built on understanding and compassion, not labels or assumptions.