My creative work often critiques or challenges consumer culture through interventionist methods, usually using the Internet as platform. My interests in brand critique, consumer culture, photographic representation, labor, and race find form in long-term online works and through published writing.


In 2005, I spent a month in Paramaribo, Suriname, working with a group of graduate students. This city was so far off the radar of American corporate interests that a local “Disney” store — its name hand-painted on the storefront — could operate with ease. This ability for people to claim a brand, and to remake it in their own image, was exciting for me. I grew up in Pittsburgh during a time when brand names started to infiltrate adolescent life. I was curious about t-shirts that connected people with the Rolling Stones or the JCC Basketball Camp but my parents rejected the idea of buying clothing to advertise a brand. They’d ask, “why would we let a company use your 9-year old body as a billboard for their commercial interests?” In this way and others, politics was implicitly part of our daily lives. My father was involved in labor rights and a stream of friends or acquaintances slept on our couch or in the attic, talked about the grape and lettuce boycotts, and went to rallies with us on behalf of Black Lung victims. During dinner, my father would describe the resistance to change in his firefighters union, our conversation interrupted by his radio announcing emergency calls. I grew up knowing that labor was not to be treated lightly.


In 2014, I began to interview dozens of people who work with their hands for a living — carpenters, painters,  landscapers, arborists, and others. Construction workers described how their bodies have broke down from manual labor and how they’ve relearned to adjust to movement and weight. Farmers described attempting to find balance between growing crops and supporting human life forms, and of the emotional toll in constantly readjusting to equipment breakdowns and to unpredictable weather. Maintenance workers described being held to more and more responsibilities without upgrades to status or pay. While interviewing farmers in Nebraska in the summer of 2016, the subject of “humility” came up repeatedly. On more than one occasion, I was told that a particular farmer was the best in Aurora. Why? Did he understand crop rotation or insect control? No. He’s the best because he’s humble. This answer resonated with other experiences during the two summers I spent in small-town Nebraska. You could sit and chat with a stranger at a Sunday pancake breakfast, never knowing that they were the mayor or a state Senator. Consumption habits showed humility as well; there were no displays of conspicuous consumption. Kids showed up for camp in the morning with their lunch and boots in a plastic grocery bag, not an expensive REI backpack. I’m curious about cultures that don’t encourage status-seeking, and am skeptical of brands and institutions that do.


I earned my BFA from Alfred University. The school has a strong community and,  in my opinion, the best foundations program in the country. The prompts they gave us freshmen — “make something move across the room” or “use your body to demonstrate the concept of time” — were unfathomable and unsettling. I failed most them, and that was one of their beauties. I still think about them. I earned my MFA in Art Photography from Syracuse University where I was lucky to have advisors who asked pressing questions that got to the heart of things. I am currently a Professor in the Stamps School of Art & Design at the University of Michigan.