On Long Walks and Printmaking
If you've collected one of my woodblock prints recently, you may have noticed a new embossing in the lower left corner. It's a Quail, the logo for Long Walk Press.
I officially started Long Walk Press in July 2025, after acquiring my own print press and no longer relying on rented studio time on someone else’s press. Having a dedicated machine to make prints felt like the right moment to give this part of my practice a name.
People occasionally ask where "Long Walk Press" came from; the answer is simple, but it has a few layers.
Anyone who knows me knows I like to walk. Walking has become something of my trademark. When I was preparing to move to Brooklyn, New York from San Francisco, California I spent several days exploring the city on foot. On one particularly memorable day, I walked from SoHo (Manhattan) to Prospect Park (Brooklyn), then continued all the way to Astoria (Queens), roughly 13 miles.
Walking is the best way I know to really understand a place. You notice how neighborhoods change from block to block. You discover quiet streets you would never find from a subway platform. The city reveals itself at a human pace.
I never wear headphones on these walks.
I think we're losing something when every quiet moment is filled with noise. Walking without distraction gives the mind room to wander. I find myself daydreaming, solving problems, or imagining the lives of the people who live in the buildings I pass. It creates a greater sense of empathy and keeps me grounded and connected to the world around me. My work begins long before I carve into a block of wood, it all starts on a walk.
The name also speaks to something less literal.
I did not go to art school. Aside from a handful of classes, I'm largely self-taught. Everything I've learned has come from spending countless hours in the studio, making mistakes, asking questions, and slowly figuring it out. There were no shortcuts.
Building an artistic practice has always felt like a long walk. You don't arrive all at once. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, trusting that each day of work adds up to something meaningful.
Art has never been a hobby for me. It's my career, my calling, and a large part of my identity. It's the lens through which I see the world.
I've also always believed that making art is a way of living long after we're gone. It let’s us tell future generations about ourselves and the world we lived in. I believe all art is both a mirror and a self-portrait.
Growing up, I was surrounded by paintings made by my great-grandparents. I never met either of them, yet in some ways I feel like I know them personally. Their paintings became introductions across generations. That left a deep and lasting impression on me.
The California Quail is the state bird of my home state. I have fond memories of watching families of quail march down the street in front of my grandmother's house, with a line of tiny chicks hurrying behind them. They're resourceful and gritty little birds that spend much of their lives on foot, it seemed fitting for this California kid who carved out an art career in New York.
I designed the logo myself by tracing a photograph of a California Quail. I wanted something clean, simple, and timeless; an aesthetic I strive for in my artwork as well.
To me, that small embossed Quail in the print, represents more than a logo. It's a promise that what you're holding was made by hand. Not using an inkjet printer or computer of sorts, but through a process that has changed very little over centuries.
Benjamin Franklin has long been one of my heroes. Sharing a first name with him sparked my curiosity when I was young, I loved, “Ben & Me” a Disney animated cartoon about his work and life; a VHS tape I watched so often it wore out. I've admired the way he approached life ever since. He was a Renaissance Man and someone who believed in making good use of each day. His example reinforced the idea that a print shop could be more than a place where things are produced. It could reflect a way of working and living.
In a world that seems increasingly driven by speed and instant gratification, I find comfort in an older way of making things. Relief printing asks for patience. It asks you to slow down, pay attention, and trust the process.
