Research drawings

I draw to investigate what I can't articulate in words.
For years I've been sketching seed dispersal—how plants release, how drops fall, how fragments scatter. Not botanical illustration but research into the mechanics of letting go. I want to feel it under my pencil: when does nature hold on, when does it release, and why?

This isn't abstract curiosity. Everything around me fell apart through violence and conflict—physical, verbal, relational. I never had models for healthy attachment or separation. So I look at nature for answers. Seeds know when to disperse. Systems know when to break open.

My drawings very often end-up becoming explosions or expansions. I start with how seeds spread, how earth shifts, how stone fractures. But under my hand it accelerates into a blast, rapid, forceful dispersal. That moment when containment fails and everything scatters.

Bio-mimicry, people call it. But I'm not studying nature to imitate it. I'm studying it to understand what I am: part of the same system. We move like nature moves, even when we pretend culture is separate. We hold, we release, we explode outward when pressure becomes unbearable.

The drawings aren't finished works meant for walls. They're investigation, process, thinking through the pencil. Sometimes they become something else—backgrounds for installations, studies for larger pieces. But mostly they're how I work through the fundamental question: what makes something hold together, and what makes it fall apart?