In January 2026, I returned to Western North Carolina, where the previous year I had been among those who rode out Hurricane Helene. I spent two weeks revisiting the area to observe, document, and extend the body of work I had been developing in Idaho. While walking the railroad tracks along the North Toe River, I began collecting pieces of coal that had fallen from passing freight cars.

What first drew me in was a visual recognition. The coal closely resembled the blackened cast burls and driftwood forms I create to evoke fire-scarred organic material. The similarity felt immediate and undeniable. Incorporating the coal into still lifes that echo my photographic practice became a way of grounding that recognition in material terms.

The connections extended further. My studio practice began in forged steel, learned traditionally using coke and coal as a heat source in this same region. Although I eventually moved away from coal for reasons of access and practicality, its environmental implications also lingered. When burned, coal releases arsenic, mercury, sulfur dioxide, and other toxic compounds into the air. For centuries, it has fueled industry and domestic heat, its dense plumes—cream, white, yellow, even green-tinged—marking the chemical transformations taking place through combustion.

That smoke has accumulated in the atmosphere over generations. Measured against planetary time, its impact has been swift.

Encountering coal along the river collapsed these histories—personal, industrial, environmental—into a single material presence. It sharpened my awareness of how combustion, whether from wildfire, storm aftermath, or industry, produces residues that persist long after the flames subside. The work continues to follow these residues: what is released, what is altered, and what remains suspended between destruction and transformation.