Each piece begins long before I touch the clay — in the slow shaping of the wood itself. The driftwood, worn and softened by water and time, arrives with its own history already etched into every curve and grain. I see these fragments as small resting places — natural stages waiting for a story to land.

The birds come next. Tiny, watchful, and full of quiet character, they perch as if they’ve just arrived or are about to leave. Some feel like companions, some like fleeting visitors, others like they’ve always belonged there. Together, bird and wood become a moment paused in time — a suggestion of shoreline walks, wind in the air, and something gently remembered but not quite named.

I’m drawn to the in-between: not quite real, not quite imagined. Each sculpture holds a small narrative — of journeys, of rest, of finding a place to land. No two are ever the same, because neither are the stories they carry.

These pieces are little worlds in themselves — shaped by nature, finished by hand, and quietly waiting to be noticed.