I crossed the Atlantic in my mother’s womb, in the belly of the Fairsea. Four months later I was born. My immigrant parents worked hard to provide a better life for their children – it was a time when hard work could still lead to a comfortable middle class life in the suburbs.

Memory stack

My early memories are few. School, a paper route and in the summers, going outside in the morning to play all day. I raked the dirt in our front yard into patterns. I rolled marbles down an incline. I rode my bike around the new house sites and collected empty bottles. I played sports of all kinds and was drawn to the sciences, especially math. After high school I enrolled in Engineering. After two months I began to read philosophy and feigned misanthropy. I inhaled. I graduated and started working at a government desk job, but I just wanted to make stuff. I went back to college to learn to be a photographer. I took many photographs, maybe too many, or maybe too many of the wrong kind. Twenty years later I was entranced by all things online. Another 15 working years passed. One day I looked outside my office window and realized I was on the wrong side of the glass.

Now, I make stuff. I cut wood into pieces and then screw the pieces together. I hold, fold, push, pull and throw clay. I take photographs. I am still in school.

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