These works don't have titles yet. More is coming.
Gothic arches, built to scale, displayed flat on the ground. Sea glass panels that glow from behind. This piece is dedicated to my mother, who collected sea glass for years. Piece by piece, beach by beach — the broken things the ocean had worn smooth and given back. She taught me to look that way. The arches read one way when they're vertical — sacred, monumental, aspirational. Horizontal, they become something else. The beyond. A mirror. A window into the floor.
A cloth on the floor. Shoe cubbies at the entrance, each carrying a simple instruction: please remove your shoes, the cloth below has been blessed. The act of taking your shoes off is the beginning of the work. You arrive differently without them — more present, more careful, more present.
A large anthotype circle spent two hours in a field in Alna, Maine. Anthotypes are made from plant pigments — they fade when they meet light. Seeing one is never the same twice. Left alone, this one would be gone in two to three weeks. I fixed it with a UV-resistant coating extending the viewing window closer to three years. It holds everything that came through it that afternoon. The light. The wind dancing. The particular quality of a winter field in Maine going still.
I'm still figuring out where all of this wants to live — indoors in a darkened room, or outside, where the light is different every hour.
More soon.
