Video, clay | 00:14 min | 2025

This ceramic sculpture, turned into a film, spells the German word “LESERLICH” (“READABLE”). The irony is that it is clearly not readable at first glance, prompting reflection on what “readable” means—especially for dyslexic individuals. After watching the video several times, the letters become recognizable. This mirrors the dyslexic experience: it’s not that we can’t read, but that we sometimes need to slow down and revisit a word multiple times to catch each letter without skipping ahead.

The piece visually represents this process. The accompanying sound is essential—it sharpens the moment when letters break apart, evoking the anxiety many dyslexic people feel when reading.

Clay | 13" x 13" x 10" | 2025

This ceramic sculpture, reenacting a mobile, spells the word “Ortografie”—Latin for grammar and spelling. As the mobile turns, the letters become difficult to read or place in order. Where does the word begin, and where does it end? The large “O” hints at its starting point.

I chose the mobile’s form deliberately: a symbol of childhood and innocence, which for me stands in stark contrast to orthography. The piece reflects how some dyslexic people experience reading—searching for the correct letter order, feeling dizzy as the characters seem to fly around.

Clay | 6" x 6" x 6" | 2025

This ceramic sculpture becomes a light installation. Holes in the form spell: “Letters are no more than light and the absence thereof.” It challenges society’s toxic focus on spelling and grammar, showing that written letters are ultimately just patterns of light and shadow—like everything we see. Physics tells us that vision is simply photons striking the retina.

When lit from within, the sculpture’s cut-out letters project across walls and bodies in the room, distorting into abstract shapes. This reveals how fragile and arbitrary our system of written language really is.

As someone with dyslexia, I’ve always seen letters as shapes carrying more meaning than they can hold. Spelling never made sense to me—who decided which shapes are “right,” in what order, size, or spacing? I knew letters could communicate, but I never understood how they could be judged as right or wrong.

Black and white photography | 2025

Image 1: There is a part of me that reminds me of my flaws, that keeps me small and scared. The part that holds me back from reaching the sky. Because my limit is myself. This part hides; it is not visible to others. But when I observe myself in the mirror, it is always there, lingering in the reflection like a second me. I don’t remember the exact moment it spread over me. But I know why. It’s not their fault, or maybe it is. I only remember the feeling, not the words. I remember being confused, and then everything making sense, and then being confused again. A cycle I am still stuck inside. Why me? Why in a world where it hinders my communication? Why do others care? Why do I care? But I do, and I will until it finally leaves my body. This part of me is not a part of me, it is a parasite that has grown around me like a second layer of skin. I am the only one who sees it, but the way it cages me in is visible to everyone. Only they don’t know it is the parasite and confuse for my personality. Inevitably, I am becoming a part of it. 

Black and white photography | 2025

Image 2: Since I left elementary school, my learning disability formed like an anchor around my ankle and held me down from exploring my full potential. But I was a fighter, I learned three times as hard as others, and I would do homework over and over again until it was on the level of the smartest people in my class. I would go to a therapist who helped me with my spelling for two years. I worked harder and more than any other student in my class who did not share this disability. And while this was draining my energy and costing me my free time, I held some weird kind of pride in it. I don't know why or how it began, but I was convinced that my working twice as hard for the same grade made it worth more. And honestly, maybe it did, but now I am afraid. I am afraid that accepting help would mean that I give myself to defeat. I give up fighting and accept that I have a disability, I give up fighting and show my vulnerable side, I give up fighting, and I lose my power. My power of independence and freedom. I would now be reliant on other people's opinions on whether or not I deserve this extra help, time, and support. I would be just like a rag, with no say and being used however it is convenient. 

Black and white photography | 2025

Image 3: I have been trying to put down in words how I feel my entire life. And I feel stuck because I do not know how to express my emotions. My head is spinning, and words and phrases are flying around in my head aimlessly. I can’t catch them or even get a glimpse of them. They are too fast. I look down at the paper, a frighteningly white square. I am worried about not expressing myself correctly. I feel stressed, overwhelmed, and in need of a break. I close my eyes and am transported to a big, open ocean. There I lay, between the words in my head, on the tip of my pen. The words are starting to rage. They divide into individual letters and form a giant tsunami. I do not know what to do. I am helpless. I am lost in an ocean of letters, and still, I can't manage to find the right words to express myself. The tsunami of words I myself put down is taking me under. How will I tell them that I didn't mean to drown?