Across sequential, color-flooded canvases, repeated architectural saltbox grids map the fraught territory of the American neighborhood. Rooted in the vernacular houses my grandfather built across Mobile, Alabama seventy-five years ago, these works bypass pristine architectural monuments to interrogate the speculative machinery of modern development.

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.

These paintings function both as diagnostic fever dreams of spatial inequality and as visceral prayers for shelter.