I grew up in the East End of Toronto.
 

My banana-seat bike carried me to the railyards and docklands. Among the sidings and ports, I was drawn to the discarded: faded waybills and manifests, rusted signage, torn packaging.

 

At home, the fascination with the worn and forgotten continued. My stamp collection was less about pristine issues and more about old envelopes and postcards—addressed to people and places unknown.

 

My mom’s scrapbooks, filled with movie stars of her youth, opened another portal to decades past. And from the couch, television offered more: the weathered signpost at the 4077th, the autographed baseball on Sergeant Wojciehowicz’s desk.

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These fragments fueled my imagination. I was captivated not just by what I held in hand, but by what I didn’t. The missing context. The invisible stories. How did Woj get all those players to sign that ball?

 

As my professional career grew, crafting the stories of brands became second nature. It was never just about a perfect logo—it was about what it suggested beyond the design: what was implied, felt, remembered.

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Today, that same fascination with fragments and the unseen drives my collage art. I tear down what's meant to persuade—advertising, branding, the visual noise of the city—and rebuild it into something more ambiguous, more open. I'm still drawn to what’s left behind, what’s half-told, what asks the viewer to fill in the rest.

 

In many ways, nothing’s changed—I’m still collecting pieces, still imagining what might have come before, and what might come next.