What inspires me · September 2026
Wyoming
Burned forest, beetle-carved wood and a lake full of driftwood. One long day of hiking, and nearly everything I photographed is something I'd build around.
A pine cone by the geyser
This one stopped me cold. A pine cone sitting in the pale mineral crust near a geyser, bleached the same chalk-white as the ground around it, every scale still perfectly layered. Nature building the exact shape I'd want to build, and then draining all the color out of it.
Beetle trails, written into the wood
Nobody drew this. Bark beetles tunneled it, line by line, under the bark — and the tree kept the record. I could look at this for an hour. It's the kind of pattern I'd never be able to invent, and it's the reason I keep coming back with a full pack.
The same handwriting, weathered silver
Years of sun and snow turned this one gray, and the beetle trails only got clearer. Wood that's been left alone this long has more character than anything I could buy.
Rings, from the top down
A cut end reads like a map — every ring a year, every crack a winter. When I'm planning a piece, this is the geometry I keep in my head.
Burned, and still standing
Charcoal-black spires with pale everlasting blooming at the base. Fire took the forest and the forest answered. That contrast — black, bone-gray, soft white — ends up in my color choices whether I plan it or not.
A stump with a whole shape to it
The grain twists and folds like fabric. Pieces like this are why I never carve a form first — the wood already has one.
The arch
A fallen root system bent into an arch over the grass. Sculpture, already finished, with nobody's signature on it.
Driftwood at the lake
Wind-scoured wood against deep blue water. Days like this are where a piece starts — long before there's a vessel, a plan, or an order.
The hot spring, full color
Blue in the middle, then green, then a ring of orange and rust bleeding out across the flats. Those are living mats of bacteria making the color, not paint. It's the best argument I know that nature doesn't need help with a palette.
Through the pines
Same spring, seen from up the hill with young pines cutting across the front of it. I liked the interruption — the trees hide most of it and make you lean in, which is exactly what I want a piece to do.
A dragonfly on my finger
It landed and stayed long enough for a photo. Those wings are all structure — thin ribs holding a clear membrane, strong because of how they're built, not how heavy they are. That's the thing I'm always trying to get right.
Other journeys
Want a piece that carries a place you love?
Tell me about the trail, the trip or the room. I'll build toward that feeling with materials I've gathered myself.