I take pictures to get better contact with places, and the objects in them. I see a fence, by the side of the road, snaking over a hillside. Something about it suggests peace and beauty. Or the framework of a skyscraper under construction, it is forming together, but is still not together. Light is both sculpting it and pulling it apart. They are building something so strong, but at the same time it appears so fragile against the dark afternoon sky. If I photograph it a certain way, it is impossible to tell the scale of it. It might be a model, or it might be something huge and daunting. You can look at my photographs, and they can be hard to figure out. I give you hints of reality, like in the picture of the California beach. The footprints give the image its scale, but without them it could be perceived as a huge river delta. I like that ambiguity. I printed it in blue because I had blue filtering in my eyes those days -- the whole world seemed blue to me.
My drawings are about building out of lines some kind of thing or body, but the objects are themselves so fragile, loose, and flexible, dynamic and changing, because they are built up out of such delicate lines. The drawings are also a visual search, microscopic close-ups of fragments of experience, translated into markings. They try to define places, things, and smells, but if you blow at them, they are effervescent, and so soon disappear. I have to catch reality as I can. The works look so different to different people, as they retain a certain elasticity. They come from a way of seeing, but I can never quite say what they are.
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