Form 1 | #1
Marble, Italy
11’’ × 9’’ × 7’’
2023
11’’ × 9’’ × 7’’
2023
On the surface, I had everything: health, beauty, an amazing career, and a man who loved me. I was working remotely and gallivanting through Europe, enjoying the closest one can get to freedom. But on the inside, I hadn’t felt joy in years. I was no longer human — just a high-performing, tightly wound ball of neurosis in functional burnout.
And so, I dropped off the map. Exhausted from yet another spree of high performance, I ended up in a godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere, Tuscany. No cell service. No Wi-Fi. No paved road. This is where I learned to sculpt: in the heat, in the dust, under the weight of physical exhaustion, surrounded by other crazies like me.
Every day was a battle. My obsession with efficiency was at war with everything around me — it was Italy, and Italy isn’t known for on-the-clock efficiency. And I was at war with the stone itself. Here’s the thing: you can’t go faster than the stone allows. If you push harder, if you force it, your joints pay the price. I had to face that demon of efficiency. I had to let go of the idea that I was competent, in control, productive, in charge, always online, always right, always on schedule. Because I wasn’t. Not anymore. And every day brought a new demon forward, and every day, I faced it. The stone doesn’t bend, so I had to. I had to slow down, accept imperfection, and confront a dozen small and not-so-small fears. And every day, I felt a little more alive.
The sculpture you see is the result of an unraveling of neurosis, of performance, of everything I thought I was and had to be. But it’s also Tuscany itself: the heat, the smell of basil, sticky fingers from picking figs, shared meals, dusty feet on cobblestones, morning tea in vintage china, Roman roads, love, and marble dust — a lot of marble dust.
The marble for the piece came from the mountains we lived in. One day, cooling off in a mountain river after a long day of carving, I picked up a smooth marble river rock — perfect, egg-sized, shaped by time and water. That stone became the heart of my sculpture.
Holding the finished piece in my hands, I felt joy.
And so, I dropped off the map. Exhausted from yet another spree of high performance, I ended up in a godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere, Tuscany. No cell service. No Wi-Fi. No paved road. This is where I learned to sculpt: in the heat, in the dust, under the weight of physical exhaustion, surrounded by other crazies like me.
Every day was a battle. My obsession with efficiency was at war with everything around me — it was Italy, and Italy isn’t known for on-the-clock efficiency. And I was at war with the stone itself. Here’s the thing: you can’t go faster than the stone allows. If you push harder, if you force it, your joints pay the price. I had to face that demon of efficiency. I had to let go of the idea that I was competent, in control, productive, in charge, always online, always right, always on schedule. Because I wasn’t. Not anymore. And every day brought a new demon forward, and every day, I faced it. The stone doesn’t bend, so I had to. I had to slow down, accept imperfection, and confront a dozen small and not-so-small fears. And every day, I felt a little more alive.
The sculpture you see is the result of an unraveling of neurosis, of performance, of everything I thought I was and had to be. But it’s also Tuscany itself: the heat, the smell of basil, sticky fingers from picking figs, shared meals, dusty feet on cobblestones, morning tea in vintage china, Roman roads, love, and marble dust — a lot of marble dust.
The marble for the piece came from the mountains we lived in. One day, cooling off in a mountain river after a long day of carving, I picked up a smooth marble river rock — perfect, egg-sized, shaped by time and water. That stone became the heart of my sculpture.
Holding the finished piece in my hands, I felt joy.
