When we were teenagers, my best friend and I spent many hours driving without purpose or direction. The idea was to cruise toward the perimeters of town in her ’91 Nissan Sentra and turn at the first unfamiliar sight. We’d find ourselves in shadowy neighborhoods sometimes states away before heading back, often without ever having left the car. What we were looking for, exactly, was unclear. Some revealing experience—emotional, sexual, cerebral—seemed equal parts imminent and elusive, and, for me, felt oddly bound to the direction we were traveling; the roads, the woods, the houses like ciphers, pulling us along. My work is an investigation into these peripheral places of desire. I want to articulate a moment at the edge of the familiar, wherein a sense of the unknown precipitates a sort of suspended self-recognition. Formless yet charged, like pauses in a conversation, the nuances of this space are both psychological and concrete. My practice involves seeking out and reworking fragments of material culture—images, objects, sounds and settings dated from various points within my lifetime—as a means of constructing contingent, often fleeting narratives. I aim to set a scene: borderland sites such as motel rooms, campgrounds and adolescent forts evoke makeshift zones of transformation. The real is in constant tension with the ideal, mediated and blurred in the stage-space between physicality and depiction, fact and fabrication. The viewer assembles the pieces for him or herself, and themes of immanence and desire double back on the creative process itself.