When I was only six or seven, my mother showed me how to carve our Christmas cards from linoleum blocks. I loved it and wanted to perfect it. My hands worked diligently to carve the right grooves into the block. My mother didn’t mind me using up the box of band-aids for the many nicks and cuts I gave myself while finding my way.
Creating things has been sustenance for my heart and soul since I could first grip a tool. There is nothing so nourishing for me as taking any sort of material and turning it into an extension of my imagination. To carve your drawings is brilliant. It turns out, this is the most natural way for me to create my pictures. The precision of printmaking grants me the structure to tell the stories I see around me and to show what I notice and think about. The discipline demanded by the art form is enticing and seductive and what draws me to it again and again. Each stage requires vision, patience, skill and craftsmanship. Each one must be fulfilled before the next one can begin. Each is a layer in the eventual story.
Often I think of my images as illustrating imaginary tales. Sometimes I caption them as if they are excerpts from a book. They are like plates, lifted from a dusty, old volume of stories.