Sometimes it begins
with a gesture.
Sometimes it begins
with a story.
On a painting trip, I sketched the Horses of Saint Mark’s in Venice, Italy, long before I began sculpting.
Years later, I imagined making something that felt ancient.
Something lost, broken, and found, with the repair becoming part of its beauty.
Sometimes it begins
with a material.
I’ve always been drawn to what materials hold on their own. Contrast captivates me, particularly the way two very different materials can enhance each other. I also wanted to bring light into sculpture, as I had with wax in paintings.
The translucency of glass spoke to spirit, while steel brought weight and structure. Together they created a polarity: light and weight, translucence and solidity, the ethereal and the grounded.
The palette has a personal source. I’ve been combing the Lake Erie beach in Vermilion, Ohio, since childhood. Beach glass and feathers remain my favorite tiny treasures to discover. Those weathered greens, blues and translucent surfaces continue to find their way into my work.
Sometimes it begins
with a question.
How do I give a small bronze a larger presence?
And sometimes
it arrives out of the æther