As a kid, I was fascinated by the Toyota logo on the front of my family’s Corolla, the title crawl at the start of A New Hope, and the Staedtler writing utensils and book of Letraset typeface sheets that my dad, a draftsman, had around the house.
As a teenager, I couldn’t get enough of Tooth & Nail album art and tracing low-res logos that I’d amassed from the internet (I had quite the collection of 3.5” floppy disks). I spent hours in Microsoft Publisher creating J-cards for mixtapes and liners for CDs, which I’d cut out with an X-acto knife and share with my friends.
As a young adult, college design classes quickly increased my comfort with digital design tools, relatively late in the game. These tools opened up new possibilities for translating the art I envisioned into realized graphics that helped the people around me bring to fruition the ideas that energized them.
Now, nearly a decade into my professional design career, I’ve found my sweet spot: partnering with people-oriented people who are working to make the world a more whole place—through products that improve people’s lives, messages that spark hope and healing, or music that moves the human spirit.
I take my dad’s visual sense, my mom’s expertise in communication, and combine it with a love of music from them both to do what I do today. I hold a DIY ethic in one hand and a value for fastidious precision in the other.
My analog roots, in both music and design, have given me an affinity for pre-digital typefaces and for the physical materiality of packaging: I care about how it feels to hold good art in your hands. It’s also given me an appreciation for slowing down and cultivating a healthy, balanced relationship with the noise of the digital world.
When I’m not designing, you can find me experimenting with coffee brewing techniques, listening to music (here’s what’s been in my ears lately), on a run, drumming at my church, or reading a good book on the couch with my wife.