These paintings began as a material experiment — watercolor on paper primed with wall paint — and became something I didn't plan. Each one is made in a single sitting: a 20 to 30-minute sprint-meditation, one continuous state of attention from start to finish.

What emerged were fields of folding, wave-like forms that I later recognized in MIT research on fertilized eggs: the moment a cell receives the signal to become an organism, billions of proteins ripple across its membrane in spiral waves. The same wave pattern shows up in ocean currents, quantum fluids, electrical signals in the heart and brain — wherever something is in the act of becoming. A geometry of origin, recurring across scales.

These are genesis fields. The moment just before the organism, before the finished form — when the field is still deciding what it's going to be.

Each work is different because each genesis is different. Color, density, and movement shift from piece to piece, tracing different categories of origin: cellular, mineral, atmospheric, mammalian. Underneath, the structure is the same — the wave, the fold, the signal that says begin.