I started by taking things apart.
Saturdays, as a kid, I'd dismantle cordless phones — fascinated by the wires and circuits inside. I never got good at putting them back together. It took me years to understand that was the point. The taking-apart was the thing. The beauty was in the break.
My dad handed me the HTML 1.0 spec when I was twelve. I built my first website at sixteen, worked on F-15E Strike Eagles in the Air Force, prototyped a version of Street View in a high school graphics class before it existed. I came up through the machine — code, hardware, the guts of how digital things work.
But here's what all of it taught me: the technology was never the point. The people were.
That's the tension I make work from now. We live more and more inside screens — flattened, compressed, connected to everything and no one. My work pushes against that. I take real images — a face, a place, a moment that actually happened to someone — and I run them through digital corruption. But the subject never disappears. It stays legible, recognizable, human, while the digital breaks over it. The organic world, disrupted but not erased.
That's what a glitch is, to me. Not destruction. Not noise. The moment the digital and the human collide — and the human survives it.
I'm making my way back to the South Bay of Los Angeles — the coast where some of my earliest public work still stands, including a mural on the Herondo Wall between Hermosa and Redondo. I came back to hone the craft, close to the ocean and the city both. What matters to me is real connection — in real places, over the endless scroll. I'd rather make one true thing for one real person than a thousand things for no one.
When the world slows down, I speed up. When the light fades, I bring my own.
This is A Glitch House. Come see what I'm making.