I dwell in the faultlines—

between order and chaos, decay and creation, memory and forgetting. My work lives where symmetry fails and beauty survives anyway. South Texas raised, but always a little outside the frame. Studio Entropie isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a fracture. A quiet place to watch the world fall apart—deliberately, artfully.

I’ve never been good at drawing, but I’ve always had an eye for how things should look. Photography gave me a way to shape the world—sometimes to capture it, sometimes to remake it. I use it to find those moments where something breaks through: a flower in the pavement, a clean plate on a dusty shelf, a single crack in a perfect wall. I’m drawn to symmetry, but not because I trust it. I watch it carefully, waiting for the flaw—the thread that unravels the illusion. My lens is always hunting the outsider, the overlooked. I shoot to remember what others discard, to say: look again, it’s here. Every frame is a quiet rebellion. A banner. A reminder that even if I don’t belong, I’m not the only thing that doesn’t. And maybe that’s its own kind of belonging.

Studio Entropie is where I rebuild what the world overlooks—image, texture, memory, collapse. It’s both workshop and altar. I’m reclaiming old work, shaping new visions, and turning fragments into focus.

I’ve stopped trying to be perfect. It never fit.
But I can light up the cracks, show where things fall apart, and maybe find something honest in the ruins. That’s all this is. And maybe—it’s enough.