Corduroy Cowboy

In Corduroy Cowboy, oversized potato chips carved from pool noodles sit alongside a monumental canvas and stainless steel cheese grater. Cast bronze corn chip bolo ties slide along leather cords. The materials don't quite behave—soft things pretend to be hard, throwaway stuff is made permanent. It leans into humour and exaggeration as a way of circling the textures and mythologies of the artist's experiences from her time living in the American Midwest. Pool noodles stand in for processed food; bronze and steel hold onto things that probably don't need holding onto. The works drift between sincerity and being a joke, somewhere between attachment and exaggeration, where the everyday starts to feel staged. Corduroy Cowboy treats memory as something built up over time—uneven, a bit warped, and sometimes tacky. It pulls from roadside diners, convenience stores, and a kind of inherited Americana, sticking with the question of what "authentic" even means, when most of it was already artificial to begin with.