The work in this show is a collection of moments of touch and care. Together we are building support structures; for ourselves, for each other, for the things we tend to. We build structure in wood, clay and brass; in routine and repetitive motion; by watering, trimming, propping and problem-solving. Shifting to modes of practice that offer concrete support and feedback feels generative and fitting — does this object hold weight, is this plant growing, do these pieces fit? 

These things provide points of contact, creating many small moments of connection and support. 

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My plant collection originates in large part from cuttings I’ve gathered from friends and family. Many of my most prized specimens have come from my Mother’s yard in Miami. I associate my plants with the people and places they came from and caring for them often feels like a moment of intimacy, a connection across distance. Perpetually drawn to collect tropical plants, like the ones that abundantly surrounded me growing up in South Florida, I am constantly attempting  to provide ideal conditions for my tender transplants in their new Texas home. In the (semi)controlled environment of the greenhouse I am transported for a brief moment to lush, green, sweltering warmth; 160 sq ft of Miami in Austin. My Mom moved out of the home I grew up in this summer, I can never return to that place or bring home leaves and vines and cactus pads from that yard again. The greenhouse containing my collection of plants has become an invaluable and fragile record of my roots.  

Propagated plants are a lineage, a site or vessel for memory, a practice, a gift, a theft, their iterations maintain a connection.

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mother plant:

Many of the plants in this show are offspring from a single plant— a pencil cactus grown from a cutting I got from my Aunt Chris while visiting family in New Hampshire over 10 years ago. The cutting was a small stick about 4 inches long. I took it back to Richmond, VA where I was living at the time and planted it. For two years it didn’t die but it didn’t grow. I moved to New Orleans, bringing it with me, and placed it in the backyard of my new home. We lived in New Orleans for 2 years and it finally started growing, eventually needing a new pot. We moved to Austin and the pencil cactus came along. It lived on the kitchen counter in our North Loop apartment, on the front porch of our Dancy St. house, in the backyard in Skyview. The pencil cactus loves Texas and is now over 8ft tall, currently living in the small greenhouse we built adjoining our studio. 

Last summer it reached the top of the greenhouse— branches curling, pressing and pushing against the shade cloth roof, distorted with the effort to continue an upward trajectory. I finally gave in and chopped a foot off the top, repotting it to make a new plant. The big pencil quickly grew three new branches at the site of the cut and those all reached the roof within a month, pressing up and out again. I have since had to trim the same plant countless times to keep it contained in the safe warmth of the greenhouse. This process has resulted in many many new plants, each on their own upward trajectory, exploring their space, reaching, stretching, and navigating around their bounds.