Creative Practice
My creative practice moves among poetry, photography, and generative image-making. Across these forms, I return to questions of memory, place, absence, and the stories carried by ordinary objects and overlooked spaces.
Sometimes a photograph becomes the beginning of a poem. Sometimes a poetic voice takes visual form as an imagined portrait. At other times, my photographic archive becomes the foundation for reimagining a place through a diffusion model trained on my own work. Each form offers a different way of listening for what remains and imagining what might still be present.
Sometimes a photograph becomes the beginning of a poem. Sometimes a poetic voice takes visual form as an imagined portrait. At other times, my photographic archive becomes the foundation for reimagining a place through a diffusion model trained on my own work. Each form offers a different way of listening for what remains and imagining what might still be present.
Poetry
Select an image below to read the poem.
My poetry begins in memory, but it does not remain there.
I write from the places where experience, imagination, and reflection begin to overlap. The poems often return to landscapes, rooms, bodies, objects, and moments that continue to carry emotional weight long after the event itself has passed. I am interested in what memory preserves, what it alters, and what it refuses to release.
The speakers in my poems are not always direct versions of me. Some are witnesses, some are imagined selves, and some seem to emerge from the atmosphere of a particular place. They allow me to approach experience indirectly, through image, voice, and association, rather than through explanation alone.
Much of my work explores absence, endurance, intimacy, and the strange persistence of the past within the present. I am drawn to ordinary details that open into something larger: a gesture, a room, a road, an object left behind. These small points of attention often become thresholds between what happened and what might still be imagined.
My poetry is part of a broader creative practice that includes photography and generative visual work. At times, the poems give rise to images. At other times, a photograph or imagined portrait becomes the beginning of a voice. Across these forms, I return to the same questions: Who was here? What remains? How does a place remember, and how do we?
I write from the places where experience, imagination, and reflection begin to overlap. The poems often return to landscapes, rooms, bodies, objects, and moments that continue to carry emotional weight long after the event itself has passed. I am interested in what memory preserves, what it alters, and what it refuses to release.
The speakers in my poems are not always direct versions of me. Some are witnesses, some are imagined selves, and some seem to emerge from the atmosphere of a particular place. They allow me to approach experience indirectly, through image, voice, and association, rather than through explanation alone.
Much of my work explores absence, endurance, intimacy, and the strange persistence of the past within the present. I am drawn to ordinary details that open into something larger: a gesture, a room, a road, an object left behind. These small points of attention often become thresholds between what happened and what might still be imagined.
My poetry is part of a broader creative practice that includes photography and generative visual work. At times, the poems give rise to images. At other times, a photograph or imagined portrait becomes the beginning of a voice. Across these forms, I return to the same questions: Who was here? What remains? How does a place remember, and how do we?
Photography
My photography begins with attention.
I am drawn to places that hold evidence of lives already lived: worn buildings, empty rooms, roadside structures, weathered signs, abandoned objects, and the small arrangements people leave behind. I am interested in what remains after usefulness has passed and in the strange beauty of things that were never designed to be beautiful.
I have been taking photographs since childhood, first with a 110 camera and later through years of film and digital work. That long practice has taught me to trust patience, accident, and the quiet pull of a scene that asks to be looked at twice. My images are less about documenting a place than listening to it. They explore memory, absence, humor, endurance, and the ways ordinary landscapes carry emotional weight. I photograph what is overlooked, but not empty. Even the most abandoned place is still speaking.
I am drawn to places that hold evidence of lives already lived: worn buildings, empty rooms, roadside structures, weathered signs, abandoned objects, and the small arrangements people leave behind. I am interested in what remains after usefulness has passed and in the strange beauty of things that were never designed to be beautiful.
I have been taking photographs since childhood, first with a 110 camera and later through years of film and digital work. That long practice has taught me to trust patience, accident, and the quiet pull of a scene that asks to be looked at twice. My images are less about documenting a place than listening to it. They explore memory, absence, humor, endurance, and the ways ordinary landscapes carry emotional weight. I photograph what is overlooked, but not empty. Even the most abandoned place is still speaking.
Diffusion Model Work
My diffusion-model work grows from the same impulse that has shaped my photography for many years: a desire to look closely at places that have been overlooked, altered, abandoned, or left behind. I am drawn to buildings and landscapes that retain evidence of earlier lives. A worn doorway, an empty room, a roadside structure, or a fragment of domestic space can hold both a visible history and an imagined one.
Through coursework with Canadian artist Steve McDonald, I learned to train and work with diffusion models as creative tools. I built my own model using my photographs, allowing the work to emerge from a visual archive that is personal rather than generic. The model has learned something of how I frame a scene, where my attention settles, and which textures, structures, and atmospheres repeatedly draw me back.
I use the model to reimagine abandoned places rather than simply reproduce them. The original photograph provides a material anchor, but the generated image allows the place to move beyond documentation. Structures shift, histories blur, and remembered details mingle with invention. The resulting images occupy a threshold between what existed, what may have happened there, and what the place still seems capable of becoming.
I also create portraits of people who might inhabit, remember, or imagine these spaces. Some are witnesses or former occupants. Others arise from my writing, including visual interpretations of the narrators who speak through my poetry. These portraits are not illustrations in a literal sense. They are another way of entering the emotional world of the work and asking whose memory, longing, or voice might be present within the landscape.
Together, the places and portraits form a conversation between absence and presence, photography and fiction, evidence and dream. Although artificial intelligence is part of the process, the work begins with my photographs, my writing, and my sustained attention to place. I use the model not to surrender authorship, but to extend the imaginative possibilities of an artistic practice already rooted in observation, memory, and story.
Through coursework with Canadian artist Steve McDonald, I learned to train and work with diffusion models as creative tools. I built my own model using my photographs, allowing the work to emerge from a visual archive that is personal rather than generic. The model has learned something of how I frame a scene, where my attention settles, and which textures, structures, and atmospheres repeatedly draw me back.
I use the model to reimagine abandoned places rather than simply reproduce them. The original photograph provides a material anchor, but the generated image allows the place to move beyond documentation. Structures shift, histories blur, and remembered details mingle with invention. The resulting images occupy a threshold between what existed, what may have happened there, and what the place still seems capable of becoming.
I also create portraits of people who might inhabit, remember, or imagine these spaces. Some are witnesses or former occupants. Others arise from my writing, including visual interpretations of the narrators who speak through my poetry. These portraits are not illustrations in a literal sense. They are another way of entering the emotional world of the work and asking whose memory, longing, or voice might be present within the landscape.
Together, the places and portraits form a conversation between absence and presence, photography and fiction, evidence and dream. Although artificial intelligence is part of the process, the work begins with my photographs, my writing, and my sustained attention to place. I use the model not to surrender authorship, but to extend the imaginative possibilities of an artistic practice already rooted in observation, memory, and story.