I had an office job. Back when cubicles were still assigned. When I stopped seeing being an artist as something that only happened in the studio, I started treating my cubicle as a studio too. Work Station came out of that revelation. The context wasn’t something to escape. I used what I had available to me—reclaimed office supplies, time between meetings, scraps from the recycling bin. Tape, dry erase markers, thermal labels. I drew during calls. I made zines and little sculptures. I printed things on the photocopier just to see what would happen. The work was about presence. How to let the workstation become the work. How to turn routine into resource. Some of these things were never meant to last. But they mark the time I spent making anyway. Making because I could. Making even there.