Oregon

I found Oregon later in my life, but it felt like walking into a memory I didn’t know I had. Its forests, veined with slate and moss, hold a quieter kind of beauty; one that reveals itself in layers rather than declarations. Here, the world feels composed of greens and greys: riverstone blues, smoke from woodstoves rising through pine, the cool shadow of mountains in early morning. The land is damp and ancient, textured with lichen and shale, where pigment pools in the earth like secrets. In Oregon, I learned to listen differently. The colors are subdued, but they hum; charcoal, slate, pyrite flickering like embers in the dark. This body of work holds that tone: the intimacy of trees closing in, the hush of snowfall, and the sense that belonging can be born not only from where you begin, but from the landscapes that welcome you home along the way.