Artist Statement

My practice begins in silence. A pause, a fragment of thought, a gesture half-remembered, or the echo of a story told long ago. From these quiet beginnings, threads take shape. Embroidery allows me to catch those fleeting impressions and anchor them in cloth, turning the intangible—emotion, memory, narrative—into something tactile, enduring, and resonant.

I trained at the Royal School of Needlework and the École Lesage in Paris, both guardians of centuries-old craftsmanship and refinement. That grounding in tradition gives me both discipline and freedom: discipline in the precision and patience embroidery demands, and freedom to push against the boundaries of what textile art can hold. Every stitch becomes an act of translation, carrying forward history while speaking in a language contemporary audiences can feel.

I believe embroidery carries with it an act of recognition. It is a medium that insists on closeness—you must lean in, look carefully, touch gently. I want my work to evoke that same recognition in the people who encounter it: to hear a resonance of their own story in mine, to feel themselves seen in the small imperfections, to find beauty in something delicate yet persistent.

Ultimately, my work is not just about cloth and thread. It is about connection. The connection between past and present, between tradition and experimentation, between artist and audience. It is a reminder that the smallest gestures—a single stitch, a line of thread—can hold within them entire worlds of meaning.

At the heart of my work lies storytelling. Threads do not simply bind fabric—they bind meaning. In my series that encode experiences into Morse-like sequences, I am drawn to the ways language can be concealed, obscured, or rendered visible through pattern. In portraiture and figurative work, I explore the human presence: how a curve of thread can evoke tenderness, resilience, or vulnerability. And in geometric or abstract designs, I experiment with rhythm and silence, where what is left unsaid—the negative space—becomes just as important as what is stitched.

Textiles, with their intimacy and tactility, invite slowness. They demand attention. The work cannot be rushed; it must be lived through. That process mirrors the emotional and psychological dimensions of my practice. In stitching, I reclaim time, I honor patience, and I create a space where both artist and viewer can pause, reflect, and breathe.