All of a days work on a humid afternoon in a white suburban back yard. 

That need to make something—to remember time through objects—moved me up from Virginia to New York to attend Parsons. That need still rages, like the winter afternoonwhen I cut up all of my grandmother’s cursive lined letters into strips and built a paper boat my dog could float in. There’s the embodiment— text, texture, object. That’s as close as I’ve come to an amalgamation, my wiring  still stuck in one practice or the other. Visual art and writing. After thirty years of visual the writing is winning the arm wrestle, pinning down the pen flat onto the table. Time to open the painted door in that little girl’s red brick house and find the story…