01.17.2026

A year away from the art scene has a way of clarifying things. Stepping back gave me the space to slow down, strip everything to the essentials, and focus on the work beneath the work—developing core skills, sharpening the ones that had dulled with time, and breaking habits that no longer served my growth. It wasn’t glamorous or public, but it was necessary. In the quiet, I rebuilt my foundation, reconnected with curiosity, and learned to approach my practice with more intention.

Now, after months of refining, experimenting, and reconnecting with people and ideas through new networks, it feels like the right moment to return. Not to pick up where I left off, but to move forward with clearer direction and renewed momentum. This next chapter isn’t about catching up—it’s about stepping back into the swing of things with purpose, confidence, and a deeper understanding of why I make art in the first place.

About this collection..

We’re living in wild times. and I mean literally wild.. In Animal Farm, control is maintained not just through force, but through selective enforcement. Rules exist, but they are applied unevenly. Some animals are watched more closely. Some are punished faster. Some are always assumed guilty before they speak. In today’s political climate, that imbalance feels familiar—especially when viewed through the lens of immigration enforcement and the lived realities of Black and Brown communities.

ICE functions, symbolically, like the farm’s dogs: trained, empowered, and unleashed in the name of “order.” They don’t write the rules, but they enforce them with teeth. Their presence alone reshapes behavior—fear becomes routine, silence becomes survival. On the farm, animals learn quickly that visibility is dangerous. In real life, Black and Brown bodies are often hyper-visible to authority and invisible to protection.

What Animal Farm captures—and what feels especially relevant now—is how language launders cruelty. Raids become “operations.” Detentions become “processing.” Families torn apart are reduced to statistics. Just as the pigs revise the commandments to justify each escalation, modern systems revise terminology to make violence administrative instead of moral. If it’s policy, it can’t be cruelty. If it’s legal, it can’t be wrong.

The tragedy is that the animals are told this is all for their safety. That scarcity, surveillance, and suffering are necessary to preserve the farm. In the current climate, Black and Brown communities are often framed as threats to stability rather than people deserving of it. The farm needs a problem to point at—someone to blame when resources shrink and promises fail.

And like in Orwell’s world, exhaustion becomes a tool. When survival takes all your energy, resistance feels like a luxury. Boxer doesn’t question the system because he’s too busy holding it up. Today, many are forced into the same position—working harder under systems that quietly devalue their lives, told that compliance is the price of belonging.

By the end of Animal Farm, the animals can no longer tell pigs from humans. That’s the most unsettling part. Power no longer pretends to be different—it just asks to be accepted. In the current political moment, the danger isn’t only in overt cruelty, but in how normalized it has become, especially when it falls on the same bodies again and again.

The farm still claims it’s protecting itself.
The rules still change.
And Black and Brown lives are still asked to carry the cost.