Artist Bio
I am an artist and writer based in Rochester, New York. I work in 35mm film, photographing the ordinary places and hours of my daily life, and I write alongside the pictures.
I came to photography through psychology, studio art, and creative direction, and each still shapes my work. I am a member of the 2026 Kinhouse Art cohort, a year-long program that includes a residency and culminates in a group exhibition. My work has also been exhibited locally and online, featured in Create! Magazine and the Kinhouse 2025 Catalog, and shared through my Substack, zines, and print shop. I co-lead The Focus Circle, an online creative community for women, and host in-person retreats on art, photography, and creative practice.
Artist Statement
I work in 35mm film, close to home: light streaming through a curtain, a dewy morning in my backyard, the streets I walk every day at twilight, my child's shadow. The analog process is essential. There's a gap between the moment I press the shutter and the moment I see the image, and in that gap the picture becomes something other than what I intended. Not knowing is part of what charges the work.
My photographs witness rather than document. Documenting is recording what was there. Witnessing is being present to it, and letting it register. I don't work from concepts. I photograph when something in front of me aligns—when what I'm looking at and what I'm feeling arrive at the same place—and I press the shutter before I can explain why.
The developed image almost always holds more than I saw. I'm drawn to Cinestill 800T film because of what it does to ordinary light: a lamp in a window blooms red at its edges, and the hour before dark turns blue. A silver radiator glows orange where the setting sun streams across its surface. That halo isn't something I place. It's the film answering the light. The chemistry, the camera, the light are all doing something I don't control and can't fully account for. I've come to think of the process as a kind of collaboration: I bring the attention, and something outside me finishes the work.
I trust this because it does what my memory can't. A developed photograph doesn't just remind me of a moment. It carries the feeling of the moment—the light, the longing, the impermanence that runs under everything—in a way I couldn't have reproduced on purpose. That longing is what I'm trying to hold onto. It's what makes me feel most grateful to be alive. So I give up control on purpose. The understanding arrives on its own time, and the waiting is part of it.
