Objects Sent From Elsewhere
Meteorites, debris, and why so many of my works feel like they fell out of the sky.
A lot of my sculptures look like they were excavated, or fell, or were sent. I like that uncertainty — the sense that an object arrived from somewhere we cannot quite name.
The meteorite is a perfect form for this. It is matter that has travelled an unimaginable distance, survived entry, and landed in our ordinary world. It carries deep time inside it. When I hammer copper into these cratered, molten-looking bodies, I am trying to compress that journey into something you can stand next to.
There is also a kind of humility in it. A meteorite does not care about us; it predates everything we have built. Putting one in a gallery — or making one by hand — is a way of remembering scale, of stepping outside the human for a moment.
Cosmic, yes, but always made of earthly stuff: copper, patina, wax, and a lot of hours. The elsewhere is imaginary. The labour is real.