There appears to be a universal motion in the cosmos — a drift toward what we call disorder. Paint peels off window frames, sidewalks crack where tree roots push through, metal fences turn orange with rust. As a maker, this reality generates a strange tension. Every mark I make will fade, yet something in me insists on making marks anyway. The metal I work with is oxidizing even as I shape it, but that oxidation becomes part of the work’s language.

I stand in my studio and wonder if I should be making anything at all. Around me, sheets of metal wait to be shaped, chemicals promise new surface treatments, algorithms generate endless variations on my screen. But beneath the familiar materials lies an unfamiliar doubt: in a world already drowning in human output, what justifies adding more? This is every creator’s worst fear: that their work doesn’t matter. This doubt arrives without warning, usually when I’m scrolling through image feeds or walking through art fairs.