|The Sleeper Awakes|
I collect things. Any box or bag will get my attention, or bit of embroidery. I also have a collection of rulers, and one of steel cutlery, with bone and celluloid handles. I have many animal skulls, horns and teeth, feathers, quills. hair, pretty ribbons, old wooden spools, ancient ladies gloves, doll house furniture, some of it exquisitely old. I keep many things laid out in old toolboxes, the kind with drawers. When I was little I kept very little. My taste ran to the spare almost monastic. I don't know what happened, but I overflow with the Baroque now, even Rococo. I hoard old clock parts and game pieces for the day they will find their match. They have their own thingness, a specific meaning that is part appearance, part what they stood for in their first life. I give them a context sometimes very different from the original, sometimes possibly clarifying, or maybe mystifying. Lost little bits, when they were found they were only a word, a whispered one at that. I put them in a sentence.
Door knobs and handles, keys, opening the unknown. Salt and pepper shakers, old shaving brushes, the regulators from old cast iron radiators, they all look like personalities to me. Old bottles, especially inkwells...
|Untitled Windowbox On The Subject Of Time|
|In Search of Cures|
I don't really know what I'm about with these fiddlings. They don't seem to have anything to do with my painting, which is abstract, non-representational, non-biographical. I have a painter friend who draws en plein air pastels of trees, apple orchards, mountains against the sky to exercise, maybe even exorcise before going into the studio to work on her abstracts. Perhaps that is what I am doing. I never take these seriously, although they are as demanding to do as any of my work.
|A Little Like Prayer|