Mother

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a quiet, constant anxiety. It comes from watching the world change in ways that feel both slow and overwhelming. The climate crisis is ever-present, but the scale of it can be hard to hold. We know we’re part of the harm, and we want to do better: to care more, consume less, and cause less damage. But how do we connect emotionally with something as massive and complex as nature?

With Mother, I began to imagine nature not as a system or place, but as a living being. A mother. Someone who nurtures, gives, and carries memory. Someone who can be hurt. I started asking myself: If nature were a mother, what would her child look like?

The sculptures in this series are amorphous, bodily forms. I shaped them in ceramic, giving them rough, earthy surfaces with hair and fur pushing through the cracks. They feel both intimate and unfamiliar. The forms are hard to define, like fragments from a dream or distant memory. Hair and fur point to growth, change, and a kind of vulnerability. They sit in the space between human and nonhuman, comfort and discomfort, care and rupture.

I see these works as emotional containers. They hold my own mix of grief, tenderness, and confusion about the state of the world, and about my role in it. They reflect a longing for protection and reconnection, a desire to return to a place of belonging and safety. But there are no clear answers. Mother lives in that space of uncertainty, caught between care and damage, presence and loss, holding on and letting go.