Across sequential, color-flooded canvases, repeated architectural saltbox grids map the fraught territory of the American neighborhood. Rooted in something like the vernacular houses my grandfather built across Mobile, Alabama seventy-five years ago, the housing forms this series trots out are less about singular architectural expressions and more of a textual grid; a shorthand for community, neighborhoods, and housing at its more essential and essentially collective level.

Saturated acrylics, industrial spray paint, foil, and glitter collide against the rigid geometry of the subdivision. Borrowing the aspirational, pseudo-pastoral naming conventions of corporate tract housing and mapping them against intuitive color fields, the work explores the friction between late-capitalist land commodification and the messy, living communities that inhabit it-spaces of birth, decay, flora, fauna, and collective survival.

At times, in process, they are simply a meditation on memory and childhood: place, space, and collectivity; weather, time, materiality, and being.