The work starts for me with questions. Is beauty a surface quality? Could it have an inner source? Is beauty like snowflakes, which in infinite number of snowstorms fall billions of unique crystalline shapes; never identical yet each fashioned by the same physical principles. Indeed is beauty a singular ideal or a pluralistic class of possibilities?



Why do I ask these specific questions? Perhaps because my restless eyes have looked at spinning tires along highways, Jasper Johns, Shiva and the calm mudras in Buddhist miniatures and dimly wordlessly felt the connection. Because this particular body has walked in and out of relationships, shopping malls, skyscrapers, Ferris wheels, and Gothic Cathedrals all the while still imprudently seeking the link. Because my curious hands have opened and closed doors, windows both glass-paned and virtual, elaborate carved boxes, books, junk drawers, my own mind, and a facsimile edition of the Commentary on the Apocalypse by Beatus. My questions and my experiences turn and curl and form shapes inside my mind.

It is with these same hands, same body, same eyes and the same formal questions I make objects. Objects that open and close. Objects with words and wheels. Objects with mudras and targets.
Objects shaped like questions.