Everywhere... signs, marks, evidence of existence, the laws of gravity, character, history, and imagination. Cracks in the asphalt that hint at some shift underneath. Pawprints in mud, dust on a web. There are inscriptions made by wind and sand, time and fire, or just tales told by mold or neglect or rubber tires on a curve of asphalt. The marks I make - cuts, holes, burns, stains or stitches in paper - are evidence of my truths: they are a code, a rhythmic, enigmatic, asemic language as well as a map to my subconscious meanderings.
I work with repurposed or found materials that have been worn and used and worked by other people, other forces. My pieces are made from items such teabags and teabag labels, ledger paper, staples, coffee filters, cardboard boxes, zipper packaging, books, recipe cards, envelopes, discarded wire and wood. I add my efforts to the already present scratches, stains, dents, tears, rust marks and various weatherings with stitches, dye, paint and glue. I sand, boil and bake paper and books. I knead mulberry paper to get it to contract and adhere. The idea is to tell a story, but in hints and whispers, erasures, and mendings.
I start with the chosen material and see where my fingers take me, with minimal interference by conscious planning or rigid organization. I try to balance meticulous detail with rough gesture. An almost daily practice, the rhythmic movement of kneading and stitching…what emerges is a glimpse at a subliminal manuscript.