Your work is grounded in what you call “The Dissonance Method.” Could you explain what this method entails and how it specifically guided your approach to creating the Untitled Floor Lamp series?

The Dissonance Method is how I create when language falls short. It comes from moments when I’m feeling many things at once—emotionally, mentally, physically—but none of it is clear enough to name. We’re often taught that emotions should be linear or easy to explain, and if they’re not, something’s wrong. But I don’t believe that. I think there’s something powerful about choosing to create from a place of not knowing.

With the Untitled lamps, I didn’t start with a clear plan or sketch. I showed up and let whatever I was holding that day move through my hands and into form. Each curve, each surface, the way the light moves—it all came from that internal state, even if I couldn’t explain it.

That’s why they’re Untitled. I’m not trying to define what they are or mean. I want people to feel something for themselves. To see from their own angle, both literally and emotionally. The Dissonance Method isn’t about solving or simplifying how we feel. It’s about giving space to what can’t be put into words, and letting form speak where language can’t.

The Untitled lamps appear to embrace imperfection and the unexpected. Was there a pivotal moment during the creation process where something “failed” in a conventional sense but led to an important discovery?

Definitely! Before an exhibition, I was finishing one of the lamps. Inside each piece, there’s a hollow channel for the wires. On this one, I hadn’t sealed off a small section near the bottom curve—just above the lower light. My husband even asked why I’d left it open. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt a need to pause—it just felt done.

During transport to the event, the lamp cracked slightly. It wasn’t structural, but it could’ve become a bigger issue. Because that part of the channel was still open, I was able to reach inside and reinforce it from within. If I’d sealed it, I still could’ve fixed it, but it would’ve meant breaking it apart. That moment reminded me how important it is to trust the decisions your body makes before your mind catches up. Sometimes, the not-knowing is what saves you.

As someone with connections to both Brazilian and Canadian cultures, how do these distinct influences manifest in specific elements or materials in your Untitled Floor Lamps?

I don’t consciously try to represent either culture, but they definitely both shape the work—sometimes in ways I only understand after the piece is done. The curves and gestures in the forms feel deeply Brazilian to me: intuitive, soft, almost ancestral. They hold a rhythm I’ve never had to plan—it’s just there, part of how I sculpt.

Canada shows up more in the materials and conditions I’m surrounded by. I use gypsum from drywall remnants, sawdust, and leftover scraps from local construction. During my time working in interior design, I became aware of how much material gets discarded. I didn’t want to ignore it. These elements started finding their way into my process—not as found objects, but as raw ingredients I mix into new composites.

Even the seasons shape how these lamps come to life. In summer, things cure faster. In winter, everything slows down—whether I want it to or not. That shift changes how I feel when I return to the work, and I think it leaves a trace in the shape. So what you see isn’t a planned design choice—it’s a response. A moment. An emotion made tangible.

You mention that your pieces give “form to experiences often excluded from artistic discourse.” What particular experience or feeling were you hoping to capture in the Untitled series that might not be immediately obvious to viewers?

What I’m trying to express isn’t just one feeling.

It’s the kind of experience that’s hard to explain — the kind you can feel in your body, but might not have words for. I’m neurodivergent, mixed-race, and Indigenous Brazilian, and I grew up without a way to talk about those parts of myself. I didn’t have the language or space to make sense of them.

A lot of the time, what I felt didn’t fit into any clear category. And in the art world, people still tend to focus on things that are easy to describe, easy to label. But life isn’t always like that — especially for people like me. It’s messy. It’s full of contradiction. Sometimes your feelings don’t make sense — or they go against what the world expects you to feel.

With the Untitled series, I wanted to let those unspoken parts of me come through — not through words, but through the way I shape material. There are sensations I’ve carried my whole life. I still don’t know what they are, but I recognize them when I’m making. That’s what I’m giving form to.

These lamps aren’t trying to tell you what to feel. They’re just asking you to slow down and be with something unfamiliar. To sit with what you don’t fully understand — and let yourself feel something anyway.

Could you walk us through your process of working and experimenting with Brazilian carnauba wax and recycled bronze powder? What qualities do these specific materials bring to the finished pieces that others couldn’t?

I started using recycled bronze powder because I liked the idea of giving a second life to something that might’ve been discarded. But it’s not just about reuse—it’s about what it allows me to do. I mix it into a paste and apply it by hand, layer by layer. The texture depends on how I mix it, how thick it is, how fast it dries—things like humidity and temperature affect it too. I’m not trying to perfect it, but over time you start to understand how the material behaves. I work with it in real time, responding as it responds. That’s what gives each lamp a textured record of the process.

Carnauba wax, traditionally used to polish floors in Brazil, was the first sealant I tried—and it worked beautifully! It’s incredibly hard and protective, but it still lets the material breathe. I apply it by hand and polish the surface to preserve the depth and feel of the bronze. I didn’t choose it because it’s Brazilian, but the fact that it is carries a quiet resonance.

Looking ahead, how do you see the Untitled series evolving? Are there elements from these lamps that you’re excited to develop further in future work?

Absolutely. I don’t think of the Untitled series as something with a fixed direction—it keeps evolving alongside me. Each lamp came out of a moment I couldn’t explain in words, and I want to keep creating from that place. What excites me most is how much these pieces hold—not just light, but emotion, memory, and tension. I want to keep exploring that, not by planning it, but by staying present with the process.

I’m also curious about how the lamps interact with each other—like they’re speaking different parts of the same emotional language. I’d love to continue creating pieces that live together in conversation, maybe even beyond lighting, into new forms that hold space in a different way.

And materially, there’s still so much I want to try. I’ve learned how much the body knows before the mind does—how even pausing at the right moment can prevent a structural failure. That relationship between intuition and form is something I want to keep following, wherever it leads.