I grew up among bamboo forests, rice fields, and rivers, in a landscape where beauty and hardship were never opposites. They came from the same ground, and so did I.

Wandering between London and the mountains of southern France — through design, through fashion, through years of drifting toward something I couldn't yet name — I learned that precision and wildness are not opposites either. Then clay. A material that cannot lie. Every mark stays. Every fissure healed in the firing becomes part of the structure. The kiln does not reset history. It makes it permanent.

My forms are drawn from the natural world: the way living things grow, split, and hold their history in their own structure. Nothing on these forms is decorative. Everything is evidence. What has been through fire and remained whole is not diminished. It is clarified.

I make objects that have lived. And come out whole.