Wind is the most constant presence in the landscape, and the hardest to hold. It shapes stone, dune and grass, carries sound and seed, and leaves only traces. My work begins with time spent there: observing, listening and responding. Through sculpture, interventions in the land, photography and drawing, I try to register those traces, and to think about our relationship to the land and our responsibility for it.
Running through the work is nostos (νόστος), the Greek idea of homecoming at the heart of the Odyssey: the grief of returning, the hardship of the journey, and the bittersweet feeling of finally arriving. The landscapes I return to are bound up with the people who raised and shaped me. The work began on the tidal shores of the Isle of Skye. In the high desert grasslands of the Sonoran Desert, near to where my mother grew up, the work I made became a tribute to her after her death in 2020. It now continues among the coastal dunes and estuaries of northeastern Brazil, where I live alongside my own family. Beyond the landscape itself, I draw on classical literature, poetry and phenomenology.
Only recently have I begun to see what connects the work. For years I worked by instinct; only now do I have enough of it to understand why. Since 2026 I have been returning my earlier land works to a grid, one cell for each second of a recording, each placed by the canonical hour in which it was made. Kept together, they have become a kind of book of hours: a log laid over a life, with its empty days left in.
The walking in the work began with my father, on trails and rivers from the Boundary Waters to Arizona, with my brother beside us. His death is what led me to become a visual artist, yet for years I found no way into that loss through the work itself. Becoming a father has given me one.
Alecrim dourado, the golden rosemary of a Brazilian children’s song, springs up wild in the field, unsown, and is treasured precisely for that: something special, even when its circumstances are ordinary.