My attention to craft imbues the ephemeral with a lasting quality.
Farmland fills that space, almost “naturally”, between the village and the woods. Here, too, on these geometric fields, cats and dogs run about, chase after, and consort with hedgehogs, deer, and all creatures untamed.
Above Lac Léman, I squint but fail to see through the layers of clouds. With eyes open, I wait. When the sun shines and the winds blow, I know these cloudy forms will give way to Mont Blanc’s icy peak.
When the world I imagine diverges from the world I see, my practice moves from observation to invention.
My observations of the natural world give way to representations, inventions, and perversions.
There is a line, even if unmarked, between natural and unnatural, between built and un-built, between world and earth; and I revel where this line erupts.
Lava turns to stone that lines a Chicago garden.
Owlets cry for food, coyote sirens warn, and frog songs lull me to sleep. A nest of newts is red and sanguine, and a lone mushroom portends the angel of death. I hear a tree fall in the distance.
Eyes open, ears alert, and the forest marks me.
Where language fails, art reigns.
Hokusai envisioned thirty-six views of Mount Fuji, and Cezanne gazed at Mont Sainte-Victoire with fresh energy over sixty times. I, too, am looking for my earthly motif that ranges into the heavens.
I am dreaming of white mountains cast in numberless shades of summer green.
Chinese orthography and primitive art-forms bewitch, and I am drawing towards all that is child-like, animal-like, and angelic.
I sense an artistic responsibility to grasp, process, and re-present our world. This is also my privilege.
I paint quietly and slowly.
My paintings and drawings record direct and repeated observations. Each reiteration of similar motifs marks an increasing intimacy with the world and moves an observational practice closer to a private meditation. My comfort in familiar objects and their spaces manifests in an aging collection of citrus fruit—once-fresh oranges are now desiccated, discolored, misshapen, and hard to the touch; and my desire to escape the mundane impels me toward the uncanny.