I live in Las Cruces, New Mexico, the town I grew up in. Art is a small part of what I do in the world, and I hope for it to grow. Thank you for spending time here on my site to help me do that.

The small treasures I make come from a love for the humbling enormity of the universe, and for the moments of love, connection, and play that tie us back to it.

I work as a lawyer and policy advocate inside our systems of prison and punishment. I represent people sentenced to life in prison, many of whom were sent to prison as children. I witness, up close, how those systems chronically fail to keep us safe, fail to heal communities after harm, and fail to build a world centered on nonviolence.

I also work to expand access to psychedelic-assisted healing. I believe our systems will heal as we do. Psychedelic and other mystical, spiritual experiences that reconnect us to ourselves and each other are, I think, key to the transition from the old world into the new.

I came back to art from total burnout. In 2025, I quit my job and took a couple month sabbatical. I went on a bike trip with my dad and took time to unearth the human parts of me that had gotten buried under working to mitigate the harm of the prison system.

I'm back to work full time now, still finding my balance. Important in that balance, I no longer view my creative practice a break from my work in the world, but instead as essential to it.

More and more, I see my work inside these systems as a fight for creativity in some of the least creative places we've built. I want the systems we interact with to treat their own failures as opportunities to break and rebuild something that meets our needs.

It isn't hard to imagine better ways to respond to harm. Ways that honor loss and orient toward healing and repair. We only have to remember what we needed, ourselves, in our own moments of loss. We only have to ask people who are grieving what they need — and actually listen without fear.

Fear is the enemy of creativity. So much of our world is built from fear of one another and that fear breeds exactly the world it's afraid of: one where we're isolated enough from each other to cause harm to others without feeling it.

In my art, I try to capture the moments where that isolation becomes impossible — where we're reminded, suddenly, of how connected we are to the universe and to each other, and the absurdity of a fear-built world can't be ignored anymore. It’s the only antidote potent enough to carry me through this moment. I think it might be the only way home.

So I build whole, tiny universes inside empty containers, tins, things meant to be thrown away. That's the idea behind infinitely small. Nothing is too small, too used, or too ordinary to hold something vast and connected to everything else. Neither are we.