I don’t do “typical” public art. For me, public art isn’t truly public unless the people themselves are part of it. The whole point is that it belongs to the community, so the community gets to shape it.

That involvement can look like a lot of things. Sometimes it means folks collect the very materials the installation will be made from. Other times it means rolling up sleeves together, joining the creative process, and becoming part of the team that brings the piece to life.

Every installation I create begins with waste. Materials come from the commissioning partner, the neighborhood, or the wider community, and they’re transformed into something entirely new. That transformation might be subtle or dramatic, but it’s always hands-on: stitching, cutting, collaging, bending, forming, or working with resin. Each project evolves its own methods, but the hand is always visible.

People love being part of that making. Maybe it’s employees contributing to an artwork they’ll walk past every day. Maybe it’s families and neighbors stitching side by side. Maybe it’s participants across the world sending in small elements that become part of a larger whole.

Material collection is often its own joyful moment. Folks are thrilled to finally do something with the recyclables, the non-recyclables, the odd bits they’ve been holding onto because throwing them out felt wrong. And they always show up with more than enough.

And when it’s time to build, the energy is electric. Sometimes it feels like a modern quilting bee, with people chatting while they cut or stitch. Other times it’s a fully physical experience of shaping an environment together. However it happens, creating collectively is powerful.

A public art installation made with the people who will live with it becomes something deeper: heartfelt, personal, and genuinely beloved. That, to me, is what public art is supposed to be.