When does something become so fine it disappears?
Layers of dust sift over the edges of books, on the periphery of furniture, in the corners. Hair and skin ground down into a fine powder, an ongoing residue. Paper drifting on the wood floor, gathered and burnt, turned into ash yet still a ghost.

~

My work reflects the process of transition- objects in motion, imagery submerged just below the surface, the traces of an explosion. I am interested in examining how evidence is presented, how events are reconstructed.

Glass is such an evocative medium, simultaneously delicate
and harsh. That tension and vulnerability seems particularly appropriate for reflecting on the fragile and shifting quality of memory.  I am also intrigued by its traditional uses as a barrier and as a means of preservation, as a protective material that holds perishables like food and drink yet is meant to be touched.

My recent glass and print works incorporate hair, ash, and debris, discarded ephemera suggestive of their owners' histories. Some of the glass pieces have a semi-opaque surface which acts as a skin or veil that momentarily intrudes into your reception of seeing the piece.

By their reactive natures glass and printmaking are naturally protean; the development of the image remains in the final piece, making it a reflection of the process of sorting memory itself.