Some mornings I read the news and nothing in the room has changed, but I feel physically heavier. I have become interested in things that have no measurable weight but alter the body: distance, waiting, memory, fear, and the uncertainty of people we love living far away. In ordinary places, I find myself looking at things that seem too insignificant to matter—a ring of water beneath a glass, the shadow of a chair, a plant growing beside me. Sometimes these small things hold my attention when larger things become impossible to hold. The figures in my paintings often close their eyes. For me, this is not a refusal to see. Sometimes I close my own eyes because the visible world has become too full, and another kind of image begins to appear. While I have been away from home, the plants around me have continued to grow. There have been days when I felt unable to move forward and noticed that, beside me, a new leaf had opened. I began thinking about those leaves as a way of measuring time. Not hope. Not decoration. Time. I don’t know whether I want to return home, or whether I am trying to stop home from disappearing inside me. My paintings begin somewhere inside that uncertainty.
Works are made with an original technique developed by the artist — each surface built by hand with a handmade tool into a woven topography.