It, the thing I make, has to mean something to me if it has any chance of meaning something to you.
On art objects/sentimental things: Some of the the things we own can own us: their invisible tentacles wrap around our vulnerabilities and become inseparable from our existence. An object that reminds you of a time in your life when the world felt limitless. The ring you remember your mother wearing, how it turned and pressed into your skin when you held her hand. Often these feelings are kept buried inside our own experience of living, and objects become the triggers and markers that remind us. Isn’t a memory a feeling? The memory of a fan manifests into gesture and drawing, the humming circular movement of blades an amalgamation of layered senses. One line can change an entire composition. "Look at this!", hoping that it might be the language that communicates what I feel and felt, sharing it with you. What I use, the material of choice, is the fulcrum for your feeling. A possibility, a record, traces of movement, the abstract form in its additive and subtractive tracking sequence, becoming a thought, multiple drawn lines, layered video collage, this photograph, that painting, or poem, proliferate as in a fugue; falling away, and solidifying in front of you. Hope.