Artist's Statement

My current body of work, which lies somewhere between drawing and sculpture, is created with stainless steel wire that I weave using a simple loom, the design of which dates back to the Bronze Age. The task of building of a grid, line by line, is a methodical and repetitive process imbued with inherent flaws and disruptions. Like a large drawing, the components are made up of hundreds of small mark-like intersections that together coalesce into a form that at times seem to take on an almost pixelated effect. The resulting woven scrims are shaped into malleable forms, gestures in space that at times seem to shimmer, making the work seem shifting and elusive. Painting the pieces further transforms the material, neutralizing the cold, shiny, hardness of the steel, and amplifying a sense of the ephemeral.

Traces of nature and time are imbedded in much of my work. The woven wire forms suggest movement and states of flux, including meandering waterways, roads, pathways, and trails of climate change and pollution. Referencing both the organic and the man-made, the natural and the technical, they abstractly resemble objects shaped or ravaged by wind and rain over time, illustrations of string theory, or a CAD model gone awry. These abstract sculptural reflections are intended to convey both the power and magnificence of our living environment, while suggesting the ways in which we are imperiling and depleting it. Our experiences of and interaction with nature are inherently contradictory—beauty and destruction, healing and deterioration, mending and disintegration, unity and division—are built into the binary warp and weft of my method of construction.

The technique I use requires intensive labor and time. There is an absurdity to it; there are faster, easier ways to make similar work. However, the process is essential, as it allows me to move into a different experience of space and time. The repetitive action, back and forth, line after line, becomes a solitary meditation—a rhythm that echoes the in and out of tides, and of our breath. As a teenager, I often found myself seeking solace at the water’s edge, watching the waves coming in, over and over, occasionally punctuated by a small disruption in the visual field: a sudden gust of wind causing the water to peak, or a flock of birds appearing on the horizon. These sporadic, chance interruptions mirror those moments of chaos that seep into these compositions, as well as into our ordered worlds.