Playing with Fire.

Fire centers the human mind. Always has. Before we had language, we had flame. Before there were stories, there was a circle of people watching something burn.

For me, fire isn’t just part of the work. It’s part of how I stay human.

I grew up with fire in my life. Controlled burns, campfires, flare stacks on the edge of the horizon. Fire meant warmth and warning. It meant something was happening. Now, as an artist, I keep returning to it. Not for shock or spectacle, but for the way it demands presence. The way it clears out the noise.

Working with fire means building something knowing it will not last. It means trusting the process, accepting loss, and being completely in the moment. That’s not just a creative philosophy. It’s how I stay grounded.

Burning Man brings that into focus. It’s one of the few places I’ve been where the relationship between fire and community still feels intact. Out there, in that desert, fire is used with care, with purpose, with ritual. Things are built to burn, and people gather not to consume them, but to witness them.

That kind of attention changes you.

I’ve burned my own work. I’ve built things knowing they would become ash. And in those moments, I’ve felt more like myself than anywhere else. Not because I was making a statement. Because I wasn’t trying to hold on. Just letting the moment be enough.

Fire doesn’t lie. It doesn’t flatter you. It tells you when your idea was half-formed or overbuilt. It rewards the honest gesture. The clean join. The real risk. I’ve learned more from a pile of embers than I have from any critique.

So yes. This is a part of my life I care deeply about.
And if you ever share a fire with me, you’ll see it too.