I’ve learned blisters form in the third hour of repetitive hand work. I’ve learned it takes 20 hours to peel a 9-foot evergreen. I’ve learned dragonfly pigment can’t outlast a season of direct sunlight through glass. I’ve learned hiding pieces can be as much fun as collecting. Few things are more unnerving to me than the sound of paper ripping in a library. And, in regards to art and the necessities involved in its creation, I’ve discovered my morality isn’t fixed—it is more like a boat tied loosely in a windy harbor.
The process of making is an active searching; it’s the weary spirit of perplexity looking for solace in physicality. No piece can contain all the answers, (or even one answer) completely, so the search is perpetual. Some of the questions I find myself asking most often are:
What is connection and how does it manifest?
How can the concepts that feel most true and conclusive also be the most controvertible?
Must everything contain a degree of paradox?
How do senses serve and/or hinder the whole?
What are the comprehensive meanings of love, history, permanence, death, story, loss, inevitability, and perspective?
The materials I’m most drawn to are ink, paper, wood, bone, clay, and metals. I gravitate toward natural materials because I find comfort in simplicity. I also feel these materials best suit my purposes because of their elemental quality, strength or fragility, and the uniqueness each component possesses within their own right.