Artist Statement
I find my ideas by paying attention to quiet moments, light resting on a wall, wind moving through grass, or a place that feels full even when no one is there. I am drawn to these moments because they feel close to something I cannot fully name. They remind me that presence does not always require a body; sometimes it lives in the land, in memory, or in the space between things. I am interested in the way a place can hold emotion, history, and spirit long after a moment has passed.
My process is slow and intentional. I return to the same places more than once. I wait, breathe, and allow myself to notice subtle changes in light, weather, and feeling. I have learned that an image does not come from forcing it. It comes from being still long enough to recognize what is already there. Photography, for me, is not only a way of seeing but a way of listening. It asks me to be patient enough to let the land speak in its own time.
Through this work, I am drawn to what is absent yet still carries weight what cannot be seen directly but can still be felt. I think about how memory can remain in a landscape, how stories can stay rooted in a place, and how presence can continue even when nothing visible remains. Some places feel familiar before I understand why. Sometimes standing in a field as the light fades, I sense something just beyond language. Those moments remind me that not everything needs to be explained in order to be understood.
This body of work is deeply connected to the teachings of elders who guide us in understanding the land through plants where they grow, when they are ready to be gathered, and how they can be used as medicine. These teachings extend beyond practical knowledge. They carry lessons about respect, intention, and the importance of moving through the world in a good way. They remind me that being on the land is not simply physical; it is relational. Our presence must acknowledge those who came before us and those who will come after us.
Having grown up in a city away from the reservation, my connection to these teachings came later in life. For many years, part of that connection felt distant, as though something important was missing. Over time, learning from elders and spending time on the land has become a way of returning to something that always existed within me. The knowledge I have gained cannot be found in books, especially those written outside Indigenous ways of knowing. It has come through experience, through listening, and through being present. Through this work, I reflect on a part of myself that once felt absent but has now been reclaimed.
I do not try to illustrate these teachings directly. Instead, I want to leave space for them to be felt. I want the images to remain quiet, allowing viewers to bring their own memories and experiences into the work. I am interested in creating photographs that ask rather than answer: Does this place feel empty or full? Can a landscape remember? What does presence mean when nothing visible remains?
At its core, this work is about quiet forms of knowing. It is about the relationship between land, memory, and identity, and about the ways stories continue to live in places long after they have been spoken. Through these images, I hope to create space for reflection for the unseen, for what lingers, and for the presence that remains. What does it mean to recognize a presence that cannot be seen, but is still deeply felt?
