DRIFTWOOD

I'm drawn to what the sea returns—wood stripped of bark and purpose, bleached by salt and sun, shaped by tides into forms that feel both ancient and temporary. Along Maine's coast, driftwood gathers in quiet accumulations, each piece a record of transformation. The grain becomes landscape, the weathered surface catches light like fog on water.

These images aren't about the drama of the shore, but the intimate vocabulary of erosion and time. I move in close, searching for the moments when texture becomes emotion, when a piece of wood stopped being wood and became something else entirely—sculpture, gesture, memory.

What draws me back to these forms is their paradox: they're ephemeral and enduring at once, broken and made more beautiful for it.