In a landscape painting, the edges of the paper define a small, specific piece of the infinite space of the world, at a particular time, from my particular point of view. The space on the paper is a metaphor for existence: I use shapes, marks, and colors to create an image, which is a record of my physical experience. I am completely absorbed in the process of painting, as I record my response to that moment, in that place.
In a charcoal drawing, marks can be thick or thin, heavy or light, fast or slow, soft and gentle, hard and intense, smudged, erased, pressed so hard against the paper that the charcoal breaks, made with my whole hand rubbing across the paper, made with a crumb pressed between my thumb and the paper, or with a wisp of a charcoaled finger stroke. I make marks with erasers by rolling, twisting, slashing, and drumming against the paper. The charcoal and eraser marks create a world.
My books represent another kind of tiny world, combining pieces of recycled monotypes, paintings, drawings, maps, string, embroidery thread, shipping tags, etc. There are messages inside the pages.
Each piece of work, whether it is a painting, drawing, print, or book, is a
dialogue: an interaction between the materials, internal experience, external experience, observation, ideas, and memory.