The way one feels a sense of longing for home, familiarity and a sense of belonging... that is how I regard my communion with nature. Breathing in the smell of the damp forest floor, hearing the leaves rustling in the wind, feeling the folds of a flowers petals, I long for the slow and peaceful pace away from the city. For me, tattooing is a balancing act. I need the quiet slowness of nature to recover, revive, and refill my inspiration. I need the beautiful people in the city to create, to make, the images that I am absorbing as I wander through the woods. The colors, the contrast, the curves, and the patterns of the plants and creatures and the way they support each other in the landscapes are a masterpiece waiting to find you. You are my muse, the uniqueness of your body is like no one else’s. I am cultivating your tattoo long before we even meet, this is what it means to be an artist.
I am compelled to create. From my earliest memories, I would spend hours drawing, coloring and painting with my grandmother. As a child, it was a way to quietly pass the time, it was entertainment and expression. As I grew and matured it became a coping mechanism to deal with an environment that was challenging and confusing. Creating images, objects, and systems are at the fundamental core of my personality.
Growing up in Alaska was harsh. Even life in the city, where there is more access to knowledge, community and entertainment, was still isolated. Alaska is not like the rest of the country. The Canadian barrier from the continental US is a massive divide, which is both expensive and time consuming to cross. When I was a child the winters were colder, and we didn’t have the internet or computers to keep our minds off of being stuck inside because the conditions outside were inhospitable. The environment itself forges a kind of quiet toughness that deteriorates connections with those outside of your home, especially in the dead of winter. In contrast, summer is an explosion of activity, construction, community, and bustle. The mania and depression that Alaskans experience annually is something that one could easily write an entire book about.
The community that I was a part of was a loving god fearing community. If it wasn’t for my parents’ church community helping us out regularly we would not have had a home, or food, for our family of eight. My parents were careful in keeping non-religious influences as far from us as they could. This retention from an early age sparked a curiosity that became a rampant ardor for finding authenticity in humanity. We didn’t discuss our pain, our heartache, our abandonment, or our trauma. “We are blessed”, was a common phrase, and the idea that embodied our deep disassociation with unbearable stress and trauma.
I left Alaska as though someone had lit my entire hometown on fire and I was escaping with my sanity and a few of my most valuable possessions. Moving to Portland in 2002 was liberation. For the first time in my life I felt the weight of depression lift and discovered that my skills and coping mechanisms were no longer necessary. As I shed the layers of repression I began to grow and expand in ways I had never imagined.
As I found my community, and my heart softened and opened to the connection that I was craving, I welcomed tattooing into my life. The craft of tattooing was filled with hardened people, who have all have resisted the tide of convenience to pursue a challenging, competitive, and often frustrating career. It required all of the skills and coping mechanisms acquired in my youth to survive the first few years. My critical nature combined with the judgement of clientele was almost enough to break me early on. I am so grateful for the grace, love, and support that was given by my peers and colleagues.
Today, tattooing is my gift. It is the product of the accumulation of skills required to perfect a craft. Designing and making tattoos brings me great joy and I appreciate everyone one of you who have shown interest and pursued getting work from me. Deepest gratitude.
I am compelled to create. From my earliest memories, I would spend hours drawing, coloring and painting with my grandmother. As a child, it was a way to quietly pass the time, it was entertainment and expression. As I grew and matured it became a coping mechanism to deal with an environment that was challenging and confusing. Creating images, objects, and systems are at the fundamental core of my personality.
Growing up in Alaska was harsh. Even life in the city, where there is more access to knowledge, community and entertainment, was still isolated. Alaska is not like the rest of the country. The Canadian barrier from the continental US is a massive divide, which is both expensive and time consuming to cross. When I was a child the winters were colder, and we didn’t have the internet or computers to keep our minds off of being stuck inside because the conditions outside were inhospitable. The environment itself forges a kind of quiet toughness that deteriorates connections with those outside of your home, especially in the dead of winter. In contrast, summer is an explosion of activity, construction, community, and bustle. The mania and depression that Alaskans experience annually is something that one could easily write an entire book about.
The community that I was a part of was a loving god fearing community. If it wasn’t for my parents’ church community helping us out regularly we would not have had a home, or food, for our family of eight. My parents were careful in keeping non-religious influences as far from us as they could. This retention from an early age sparked a curiosity that became a rampant ardor for finding authenticity in humanity. We didn’t discuss our pain, our heartache, our abandonment, or our trauma. “We are blessed”, was a common phrase, and the idea that embodied our deep disassociation with unbearable stress and trauma.
I left Alaska as though someone had lit my entire hometown on fire and I was escaping with my sanity and a few of my most valuable possessions. Moving to Portland in 2002 was liberation. For the first time in my life I felt the weight of depression lift and discovered that my skills and coping mechanisms were no longer necessary. As I shed the layers of repression I began to grow and expand in ways I had never imagined.
As I found my community, and my heart softened and opened to the connection that I was craving, I welcomed tattooing into my life. The craft of tattooing was filled with hardened people, who have all have resisted the tide of convenience to pursue a challenging, competitive, and often frustrating career. It required all of the skills and coping mechanisms acquired in my youth to survive the first few years. My critical nature combined with the judgement of clientele was almost enough to break me early on. I am so grateful for the grace, love, and support that was given by my peers and colleagues.
Today, tattooing is my gift. It is the product of the accumulation of skills required to perfect a craft. Designing and making tattoos brings me great joy and I appreciate everyone one of you who have shown interest and pursued getting work from me. Deepest gratitude.
Outside of the studio
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While tattooing is a huge part of who I am, like anyone, I have other interests and things that I care about. Creating an ethically positive relationship with the environment is a huge one for me. I don't know that everyone feels the weight of the way that humanity consumes and makes waste, but I do. Maybe it stems from growing up in a huge family and never feeling comfortable taking up space, or maybe it's due to hiking my way through burnt out forests of leafless splinters of trees... or some combination of the two. One trip to the dump site in the industrial area downtown was enough to make me seriously rethink my relationship to the things I was throwing away. Which is exactly what I did.
In 2018, I decided that neither apartment life or roommate life was appealing to me. So I decided to go tiny. I bought a yurt and began the process of building it and moving. Downscaling was tedious, but it freed up a lot of space. I examined the systems that are given to us with society and made changes that feel more aligned with supporting the environment. If human convenience is the goal of the systems that support us, then I'd say we have been pretty successful in that endeavor... but at what cost? During the transition to the yurt, an 11 year relationship ended, and many friendships drifted away with it. The yurt became my cottage in the woods, away from the things that felt tumultuous and painful. With that I moved my business to the private studio. Everything became smaller and less complicated. My relationship to my artwork became more focused and my process more refined. Nestled underneath my grandpa's "noodle" lamp, and my grandma's quilted painting is where I curl up to design your tattoos. 
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My partner, Tobias was there for all of that. He helped build the yurt, and the studio, and supported me through the growing pains and changes of the last 8 years. Tobias is an army Veteran and a driven athlete and writer. He is loving, patient and giving. He has a huge heart for the houseless people living in the city of Portland and those grappling with addiction. Together, we live in the yurt with our Australian shepherd, Marla, my flame-point siamese, Alabama, and my redtail boa, Lestat (or snake). We are avid nature enthusiasts, jiu jitsu practitioners, weight lifters, and we love to cook simple delicious foods together. In our home there is joy and love and a commitment to both mental and physical health.
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