Embedded in memories of love, my practice tells a story of care. It grieves love lost, and celebrates love found in the escape to the moments, where one finds home. In best friend’s laugh, mother’s cooking, or the shirt that doesn’t button up quite right over an old man’s tummy. Migrating through histories of origins and ancestry, threading the teary waters of movement, following a ball of wool from the hands that spun it to the being that grew it, my practice; just like life itself; is little bit sad and a little bit funny, very messy and constantly developing. Rooted in what is considered ‘craft’ it branches out into textiles, woodwork, environmental art, writing, and many more.