The Studio Gallery

A cicada rests on an anatomical brain engraving — clockwork, dried botanicals surrounding it in a silver ivy oval under convex glass. As above, so within. Nothing exists in isolation. A network without beginning or end.

Acherontia atropos — the death's head hawk moth — behind Victorian mantle clock glass. The hands rest at ten seconds to midnight. Memento mori. Memento vivere. In the face of such brevity, what will you do with your ten seconds?

A kintsugi-inspired figure pierced with gold arrows — the broken places filled in rather than hidden. Even science becomes something to punish. Every break glows with the quiet insistence that truth endures. The stubborn, golden beauty that rises from every wound.

Ruin is not an ending, but a stage of becoming. Even in pieces, we are still whole in our own evolving way. The baroque frame holds what cannot be made whole — and finds it beautiful anyway.

Twenty miniature gold baroque frames arranged across a black panel — brains, skulls, hands, organs rendered on circuitry backgrounds. Bones, gears, dried botanicals, and cast organs become constellations of memory. Fleeting altars to the in-between.

A plaster torso with a watch face embedded in the chest — a purple emperor butterfly suspended above, clockwork and dried botanicals arranged across a split surface of black velvet and circuit board. What we carry in the body. What the body carries through time.