People often ask where I find the materials for my work.
The truth is, I don’t really find them anymore.
I wait.
Since moving to St. Croix, my practice has become less about collecting and more about paying attention. I no longer cut, harvest, or search for the perfect material. I work with what the land has already released, fallen palm fronds, weathered branches, seed pods, rope washed ashore. These aren’t resources to be taken. They are gifts already given.
That shift changed everything.
The title The Offering came to me because I realized the exhibition isn’t only about what I make. It’s about exchange.
The land offers its stories, its remnants, its beauty, and its scars. In return, I offer my attention.
I offer my labor.
I offer care.
And through this exhibition, I’m inviting others to make an offering too, not of money or possessions, but of time. Of slowing down long enough to notice something they might have walked past a hundred times before.
For me, an offering is never a transaction. It is an act of gratitude.
It asks nothing in return.
As I finish this body of work, I keep returning to one question that has quietly guided every piece:
What does the land offer, and what do I owe it in return?
I don’t know that I’ll ever have a complete answer.
But perhaps that’s the point.
Perhaps the offering is simply continuing to ask the question.
