I approach my practice as an ongoing exploration, where questions lead to more questions rather than answers.

In my work, I’ve been researching and crafting domestic environments that foster growth. By studying houseplants, I’ve discovered that growth requires adaptation, research, and trial. Houseplants became my teachers. It is through trial that I learned the importance of the right environment, the right soil for roots to take hold, and how cutting back can spur new growth. I learned that starting over can open up new possibilities.

My art practice is much the same—an ongoing process of exploration and experimentation. I fail, I believe, I question, and I don’t aim for any singular answer. The questions I ask are more important than the answers, as I am continuously seeking. Does nature, in its quiet wisdom, show us how to adapt and grow?

Somewhere along the way to adulthood, I’ve lost something fundamental—a universal experience, perhaps. From climbing trees and returning home covered in mud to living surrounded by concrete. City life reshapes my relationship with nature; it no longer happens in forests or open spaces but in my home, through a potted plant.

Can I combine these themes in my work to make people stop and reflect on the responsibility we have—not only to each other but to the earth itself? How can I create my art in such a way that it, too, requires care, never to be abandoned, never to be left in a basement? How can I ensure my work is never just an investment, but something that cannot survive without consistent care, mirroring the very act of nurturing and responsibility I wish to convey?

I’m still searching, still questioning, but through this process, I hope to foster a dialogue about care, connection, and the fragile balance we all depend on.