June 15, 2019
WHERE DOES AN ARTWORK BEGIN? Certainly not with the first brush stroke or that initial whack with a chisel; even searching further back--to when materials were gathered together with hope and intent--is not going far enough. Ideas, feelings, impressions, knowledge, experience, research, memories, sensations...they move through us like vectors of light, their stray particles clinging, drifting down, settling, waiting.
Sitting at my desk, I hear music from outside and instantly a day from ages ago (was I seven or eight?!) rushes back and there's an image of a white and green tent and a schoolyard and a game being played, maybe I'd even won a prize, and then I'm walking home and the light on the cathedral of trees is dribbled honey and I clutch at my paper bag.
The piece I recently completed (The Unthought Known, 2019 (20" x 50" 10"); Argema Mittrei (Madagascan moon) moth cocoons, linen covered wire) echos my long-held curiosity about mummies, bog people, chrysalises (and transformations of all kinds), but also a fear of constriction, the suffocating limits I may never push passed, and of death. But I sense as I sew that the piece is about so much more than all that and I'm muted by my lack of clarity, by the swirl of it all inside, tiny wings beating furiously, searching for a new opening not even I can see.
WHERE DOES AN ARTWORK BEGIN? Certainly not with the first brush stroke or that initial whack with a chisel; even searching further back--to when materials were gathered together with hope and intent--is not going far enough. Ideas, feelings, impressions, knowledge, experience, research, memories, sensations...they move through us like vectors of light, their stray particles clinging, drifting down, settling, waiting.
Sitting at my desk, I hear music from outside and instantly a day from ages ago (was I seven or eight?!) rushes back and there's an image of a white and green tent and a schoolyard and a game being played, maybe I'd even won a prize, and then I'm walking home and the light on the cathedral of trees is dribbled honey and I clutch at my paper bag.
The piece I recently completed (The Unthought Known, 2019 (20" x 50" 10"); Argema Mittrei (Madagascan moon) moth cocoons, linen covered wire) echos my long-held curiosity about mummies, bog people, chrysalises (and transformations of all kinds), but also a fear of constriction, the suffocating limits I may never push passed, and of death. But I sense as I sew that the piece is about so much more than all that and I'm muted by my lack of clarity, by the swirl of it all inside, tiny wings beating furiously, searching for a new opening not even I can see.