Videos

Studio 24  

My old studio brought me to a town I didn’t even know existed. I found it on Craigslist: “2400 square feet for $975.” I wasn’t looking for much—just a place to build a darkroom. With the International Center of Photography relocating, the idea of being without one for months felt unbearable.

After I signed the lease, my friends started calling more than ever. Newburgh, they said, was the “murder capital.” Most of them had never been. Still, they’d check in—“you alive?” It was strange how a place could be defined by people who had never seen it.

For me, it was a beginning.

The city revealed itself slowly. Its beauty was scattered—historic buildings that had stood for centuries, and newcomers, many from the Culinary Institute of America, creating food that could stop you in your tracks. There was drama in the streets every day, sometimes feeling like a movie, sometimes something harder to name.

Even the police didn’t seem real—men and women in perfectly pressed uniforms, looking like they had stepped out of a film.

Somewhere in all that contradiction, I found exactly what I needed.

RolleBack –  Turns interruption into medium.

While the canvas is dismantled and reborn, a woman’s voice floods an answering machine with testimony about the impossibility of making art under social pressure. Her messages pile up as invisible labor made audible.
The tape fills as the canvas frays.
Two systems unwind simultaneously: textile and psyche.
The phone is answered only when the work is finished—a radical refusal of the historical expectation that women answer first and make later.
Art before response.

The gesture transforms process into resistance.

Love is Blind

An experimental black-and-white film where documentary fragments dissolve into abstraction, exposing art-making as obsession, gesture, and lived performance. Process becomes the subject; the studio becomes a psychological landscape. Scored with Pulp’s Love Is Blind, the work unfolds as a meditation on desire, illusion, and the blind faith of creation.

Filmed by Tatsushi Tahara

Cooking the Film

Using the kitchen as darkroom and laboratory, I buried film in bread dough and baked it, allowing heat, yeast, and accident to intervene in the image. A gesture of surrender to process, where domestic labor becomes alchemy and film is altered through consumption before it can be seen.

Filmed by Laurance Hoffmann

Eleven

For 111 seconds, a woman in southern Italy repeats the word eleven. Bound to its own numerical logic, the work uses repetition until language fractures; eleven ceases to signify a number and becomes rhythm, utterance, abstraction.

Radar Love

A homage to the overlooked heroes of the road—the mechanics. Every year I photograph the men in the garage who keep our lives moving. Their labor is rarely celebrated, yet they make possible our commutes to work, school, and the people we love; their hands quietly prevent catastrophe.

This film transforms those photographs into a moving portrait set to Radar Love by Golden Earring—a driving anthem turned tribute. Through rhythm, grease, machinery, and portraiture, the garage becomes a stage where working-class skill is elevated into myth.

Part documentary, part ode, the film reclaims the mechanic as cultural hero. Not anonymous labor, but guardians of motion.

Narcy (short for Narcissism)

An experimental film born from entrapment and motion. During a 30-hour drive to the Houston Art Car Parade, boredom dissolved into obsession as I began filming our image reflected in the mirrored hubcaps of passing 18-wheelers while speeding along American expressways at 80 miles per hour.

What began as roadside diversion became a study of narcissism through distortion—self-portraiture caught in chrome, fragmented by velocity, warped by passing machinery. The highway becomes mirror, cinema, and psychological space where identity flickers between appearance and disappearance. Narcy turns the compulsive act of looking at oneself into a meditation on speed, vanity, repetition, and the unstable image.

Bragging Rights

A 2 minute 30 second experimental film reclaiming mileage as resistance. In a culture addicted to disposal, where high-mileage cars are cast off like exhausted bodies, Bagging Rights reverses the hierarchy of value. A Mercedes bought at nearly 200,000 miles and revived beyond 335,000 becomes an anti-luxury monument, where wear is prestige and survival is style.

Scratches, engine heat, road scars, and accumulated miles read as autobiography. Odometer numbers become a political language. What capitalism names obsolete, the film frames as exalted. This is not restoration as nostalgia, but defiance against planned obsolescence and the fetish of the new.

The car carries bragging rights because it has endured. Mileage becomes authorship. Excessive use becomes beauty. The machine, like the body, acquires dignity through surviving.

Bragging Rights proposes a new status symbol: not the new car, but the one that refuses to die.

More French

A woman falls in love not with a man, but with a language she cannot understand. He speaks in French—fluid, musical, opaque—and she responds not to meaning, but to sound. Desire emerges through rhythm, tone, and projection; language becomes pure sensation, detached from comprehension.

Her voice begins to mirror his, echoing fragments of French she does not grasp, transforming speech into a kind of abstract music. What appears intimate is, in fact, a misalignment—an emotional attachment built on absence rather than knowledge.

Behind them, footage from Broken Blossoms unfolds: Lillian Gish as Lucy, fragile and silent, caught in a narrative of protection and violence shaped by D. W. Griffith. The historical imagery introduces another layer of distortion—romanticized suffering filtered through time, culture, and problematic representation.

The soundtrack, A Taste of Honey by Herb Alpert, adds a nostalgic sheen, further blurring the line between sincerity and artifice.

Together, these elements construct a space where desire is displaced: language without meaning, images without context, emotion without grounding. The work asks whether love, like cinema, is often an act of projection—an attachment not to what is known, but to what is imagined.