I have always been a collector of found objects, natural and man-made; I find preciousness in things left over. I am fascinated by what came before me--a fingerprint in four thousand year old pottery is as beguiling as a snail shell. Small tokens left by living creatures show me the beauty of life in the remains of death. Nature continues to captivate me with graceful curves of a skull or fractal patterns of a pinecone. These are not only tokens of a life gone; there is promise of renewal in a shed antler, or a maple seed.
I am not sugar and spice. I am warmth and power constrained to bone and blood. I am real. My body is lived in, and has carried me through the world and wounds and I’m not done. Not yet.