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Beyond a soulful reverence for nature, reflections on solitude, sensuality, intimacy, longing, aging, death and birth inform my paintings.
I am a letter-writer, a journal-keeper. I dabble in poetry. I save tattered old books and take pictures of trees and vistas and statuary. I am a gatherer and collector; my studio is filled with baskets of remnants of life: fabric swatches and shards of pottery, discarded letters, sketches and collages, dusty keys and optics and scraps of rusted metal, tarnished jewelry and faded photos; tea bag papers and postage stamps, wine bottle labels and maps and diaries and pebbles and dried flowers, seed pods and leaves.
With glue and paint I arrange these ephemera, starting always with a response: something catches my eye—perhaps a photo, a fragment of text, a swatch of fabric. To this initial "something," I bring other elements —a wash of paint, a scribbling of thought, a torn photo. Soon a dialogue begins to develop between the elements, and eventually, a narrative.
Rarely do these paintings unfold with a preconceived notion of what I want them to be about. Or, more precisely: despite a preconceived notion, inevitably these paintings develop into a story all their own. My process is one of exposure balanced with concealment: layers of images and writing are built up and expanded upon, only to be hidden (partially or completely) in an ongoing cycle of give and take, push and pull. Secrets revealed, then obscured.
Recurring shapes and images have evolved into a personal symbolism and visual language: archways and passageways, trees and leaves and delicate traceries of vine and grass...suggestions of distant horizons, soaring birds...geese...the female form. And of course, words. My canvases have become tablets upon which I scribe what is on my mind—dreams, goals, bits of poetry, notations, annoyances...Anxieties.
Desires.
Confessions.
Hopes.
Therapy.
Indeed, my canvases have become a trusted conduit of communication between my soul and my angels—my dear late parents prime among them.
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