Tell us about your practice and how you came to making?

I’m a designer and woodworker based in Brooklyn, and my practice sits somewhere between sculpture and furniture. I make functional objects, but I approach them as spatial compositions — thinking about volume, rhythm, texture, and how the body encounters a piece.

I came to making through sculpture. I was always interested in material intelligence — how different materials behave, where they resist, where they yield. Wood felt alive to me in a way that other materials didn’t. It carries time in its grain, tension in its growth rings.

Furniture became a natural evolution of sculpture because it allowed me to create objects that people live with — not just observe. I’m interested in making work that holds both presence and utility.

Do you have a ritual when it comes to making/designing work? What’s your process getting from the ideation stage to a completed furniture piece?

My process almost always begins with geometry.

I sketch forms that feel structural and precise, and then I ask how I can introduce softness — through weaving, curvature, pattern, or surface manipulation. I’m drawn to the moment where something rigid begins to feel fluid.

From there, I move quickly into prototyping. I don’t believe in solving everything on paper. Wood reveals itself in process — in steam bending, in coopering, in carving. I often learn what the piece wants to be by physically pushing the material and seeing how it responds.

There’s also a lot of revision. I’ll build something, live with it in the studio, tweak proportions, change the density of a weave, adjust a reveal by a fraction of an inch. Precision matters, but so does intuition.

You have a background in sculpture. When did you start to move into woodworking, and how does your background in sculpture influence your work now?

I moved into woodworking after sculpture school because I wanted to build objects that had consequence in everyday life.

Sculpture trained me to think about negative space, weight, tension, and balance. That training still underpins everything I do. Even when I’m building a bench or a console, I’m thinking about silhouette, shadow, and how light interacts with surface texture.

Woodworking added another layer: constraint. Joinery, structure, durability — those are real demands. I love the tension between expressive form and structural logic. It keeps the work honest.

There is play with form, color and pattern in your work. Where do you draw inspiration from?

I’m inspired by systems — architectural rhythm, woven grids, repetition in nature, coopering patterns, tile work, even industrial fabrication.

Color, for me, is emotional. It can soften geometry or heighten it. Pattern allows me to introduce movement into static forms. I like when a piece feels like it’s opening or unfolding.

There’s also a sense of joy that I try to preserve. Even though the work is technically rigorous, I don’t want it to feel severe.

You use coopering, fluting, and weaving to add texture to your pieces, what draws you to a particular method of making for each piece? How do you pull the texture out of the material?

Each method begins with structure.

Coopering, for example, is inherently geometric — it’s a series of angled staves forming a curve. I love that it reveals its own construction. You can see the math in it.

Weaving introduces tension and compression. It softens wood by juxtaposing it with fiber.

Fluting manipulates light. It turns a flat surface into something animated through shadow.

I don’t apply texture decoratively. I look for processes that amplify what the material already wants to do. Grain, tension, curvature — I try to make those visible rather than hiding them.

Is there a method, or style of woodworking or joinery that you find to be particularly enticing? If so, why?

I’m endlessly drawn to coopering because it feels both ancient and mathematical. It’s a technique rooted in utility — barrel making — but when applied to furniture, it becomes sculptural.

I’m also fascinated by joinery that disappears. When something complex feels seamless, that restraint is powerful.

Peg Woodworking is an all female-run company, and you’re also involved in community outreach to expose women and under-resourced communities to woodworking. How has that shaped the way you approach and grow your practice?

It’s central to my practice.

Woodworking spaces are still often male-dominated. Building a female-run studio wasn’t just logistical — it was cultural. It changes how we collaborate, how we problem-solve, how we mentor.

Community outreach is equally important. Teaching young women and under-resourced communities woodworking isn’t just about skills. It’s about access to tools, access to confidence, and access to economic opportunity.

That responsibility shapes how I grow the business. It’s not just about producing objects. It’s about building a structure that supports others.

Is there anything you’ve dreamed of making, but haven’t yet?

I would love to build something architectural at scale — a woven facade, a large suspended installation, or a permanent public work where coopering and weaving operate structurally, not just decoratively.

I’m interested in pushing these techniques beyond furniture and into space.

What's next for you?

I’m continuing to explore how geometry can feel soft — through new finishes, new scale, and larger woven applications.

I’m also expanding into lighting and architectural interventions. I want the work to move beyond objects and begin shaping environments.