A stack of bricks became red clay condos: how did I think my tiny tenants could breathe without windows? Could enter their brick homes through painted-on doors? Still, the front yard was lush, cushioned with fresh green moss…

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

That compulsion to make something—to remember time through objects—propelled me up from Virginia to New York to attend Parsons. That need still rages, like the winter afternoon when I cut up all of my grandmother’s cursive lined letters into strips and built a paper boat wide enough for my dog to 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 or writing. After thirty years of the visual, the writing is winning the arm wrestle, pinning the brush flat to the table—time to open that painted door in the little girl’s red brick house—time to find the stories…