Wing de Coeur: A Story of Synchronicity
Artist Statement 2017
Imagine what it must feel like to fly on silent wings in the night?
My good neighbor gave me two preserved wings a year or so ago. Two wings that had belonged to two different birds some thirty years prior. They are owl wings, one from a Great Horned Owl and one from a Barn Owl. Beautiful and perfectly intact. I have been working on paintings of them, one of each, both emblems of animal medicine, power, and flight. They speak to me of the Shamanic belief that everything natural is alive, holds spirit and vibration. There is a "creative fusion" unfolding as the organic transforms, even in death.*
The patterns of the feathers are all so many complex markings that camouflage the bird wherever this nocturnal creature rests during daylight hours in forested habitats. On this January morning I am inspired to finish up the details of the painting of the Barn Owl wing. I apply a final glaze to a surface of silver leaf, integrating the image of the painted wing form with the area of silver surrounding it. It is a risk because once I paint something over the investment of silver leaf it cannot be undone. But today is a rare day when in an almost effortless series of movements, mixing the thin white oil paint, the right brush in hand, the application of it comes together, the glaze works.
It is warm and sunny when I take the painting onto my studio balcony to apply a light spray over the thin white glaze. In the outside air the smell of turpentine dissipates quickly. Happy with the alchemical result, I bring it inside and dance joy that the risk -taking is effective. The reaction of the turpentine over the glaze looks like dappled light across the surface.
They say, truth is stranger than fiction. Several hours later in the day, on the freeway traveling with my friend Glo at the wheel, I spot the unmistakeable shape of a wing on the side of the road. And evidence of the body of a large bird behind the upturned wing. It could only be a Red-tailed Hawk or an owl; I am certain the instant I see it. Glo sees it also and she pulls over when I ask her to stop, quick enough so that we can go back to look at what it is lying there.
What we find is flawless. A large bird indeed, with one powerful clawed foot visible, the other curled up near to it's chest. It is the right wing that is raised up slightly moving in the air, almost waving. Daylight clarifies the distinctive patterns on the wing feathers, I recognize immediately that it is a Barn Owl, as I have been looking at many photos of them in recent months while painting the wings. In person, this animal is from another realm, ethereal and as it is often described: ghostly. Glo and I are both stunned by the experience. Somewhat breathless, I am trying to calculate how this bird met its fate. Slightly above and next to us is an orchard of winter-bare trees, perhaps his hunting grounds. Carefully, I pick up the velvet body, it weighs almost nothing. I am not afraid of a bad omen-it is too exquisite-but I do fear for a moment that he might still be alive, so warm the body is from the sun. Maybe this happened in daylight, though more likely it was downed in the windstorm we had last night or clipped by a car while in pursuit of mice. I wonder many things about this marvel to behold. How old is this bird, it must be young to be so meticulously groomed. Does he or maybe she have a mate?
If our encounter had happened at any other moment it would not be as significant. Maybe you can guess my disbelief. My increasing inability to comprehend how on this day, this specific bird, this right wing rising to my vision, is the very same. The very same wing of a Barn Owl that I was painting this morning. Its full moon face, framed with a circle of delicate darker feathering like a ruffle, black eyes still open and slender pink beak is extraordinary. Some things happen that we can never ascertain, mysterious and mystical conjunctions beyond the reasoning of the mind. My next painting is yet to be determined, and I may continue detailing the wings for some time to come, obsessive is my nature, but this experience may be the portal to the next image, perhaps a portrait of this face.
I can only imagine what it must be like to fly on silent wings in the night.
* The concept "creative fusion" is from the book, The Biology of Wonder:
Aliveness, Feeling and the Metamorphosis of Science
by Andreas Weber. For more reference see previous statement from 2016.
Wings of Desire
March 1, 2016
Something opens our wings....
The emptiness is so profound.
I was not prepared.
As I drove past the Isleta fields on the way to Bernardo wildlife refuge yesterday,
a few cranes entered the peripheral of my vision.
I remember thinking, "that's a good sign."
As I continued on my way south of Albuquerque, I noticed a sinking inside me, an existential feeling of loneliness. I attached it to something else, other than the cranes
But when I exited at Rt. 60 there was not a
bird in the fields along the train tracks, not one.
And when I got to the lookout tower and got out of my vehicle,
I could swear I heard the unmistakable call of a Sandhill crane.
But my mind said, "how could that possibly be?"
There was not a bird-you know the agony of loss-not one, not a crane, not
any birds in the fields at all. Thankfully a big hawk in a tree and some few pairs of
ducks in the water along the acequias kept me company. I did cry at the magnitude of the loss. So many thousands of birds had been here in the corn fields just two weeks ago. Snow geese along with the Sandhill cranes and waterfowl as well as massive flocks of smaller birds that morphed like clouds in the sky. Now the cranes are on route to Monte Vista, Colorado where they will have their ancient spring ritual and mate.
I walked alone in the fields and collected feathers. Gifted a pair of wings, still attached to the breast bone, I put them -with some ceremony- in the back of my vehicle. They look like misty-grey angels wings.
I am in the midst of a commission, a painting of a life-size Sandhill crane, it is the second crane I have painted. Just now in the process of creating the wing on the right side of the body, this gift will help me to articulate the feathers better. A new book I am reading by a German author, Andreas Weber: The Biology of Wonder, speaks of the aliveness of all things, even in death. Weber says indigenous cultures often view the remains of body and death itself in terms of "creative fusion." These gifted wings carried the heartbeat of crane to a field in New Mexico. It is with wonder and curiosity that I engage myself with these exquisite remains, a desire to know and to merge spirit with the paint on canvas.
This commissioned piece is part of six recent paintings of birds. After many years, more than thirty, of working with abstraction and pattern, my current work is of specific birds, a series of ornithology images; each has a unique story to share. The birds seem to be asking to be represented on canvas with the ecological question posed: "Are we in the picture of the future or not?" So much of life on earth is facing extinction and the losses continue to weigh on me as they did in the empty field yesterday. Something opens our hearts and our wings to the great web of life. And it is within this great quantum field of life that my desire for the flocks to remain in the picture, holds the brush in between my fingers....
Portrait above by Elise Varnedoe, Wings of Desire by Deborah Gavel
Inspiration 101 June 2015
My focus is beauty. We live in a world of opposites tugging at us. Beauty alone has no opposite....I should use beauty as an opiate and if I can pull it out of nature and hint at it in paint then I should, and hand it as an opiate to any who would have it.
-Morris Cole Graves
I consider the artist Morris Graves as a mentor/teacher/guide along the path of making art. His work and the opportunity to be on his former property in the Pacific Northwest in 2011 has greatly influenced my painting. (Scroll down to the Artist Statement 2012 to read more about that time in nature).
He passed away at ninety years of age in 2001 leaving a legacy of work in many public museums, private and corporate collections. In his lifetime he also created a magical property in the Redwood forest which currently houses an artist-in-residency program in northern California.
He was a mystic painter, a rare soul in the contemporary world of art. Although he became a well known artist at a young age, he never succumbed to fame or the passing fads of popular culture. When he was 84 he painted a piece on paper called April Flowering Cabbage and a Glimpse of Continuing. It is an image that seems to be the sum of everything he had made up to that time: a graceful arching stem of a plant coming out of darkness on one side of the painting and blooming into a delicate flower reaching into the light on the other side. Exquisite in form and content. I'd say it is a masterful distillation or essence of all his previous paintings.
His work has inspired me for many years to create. A book by Theodore Wolff -Morris Graves: Flower Paintings is a constant companion, it includes images of his early work as well as his later floral pieces. In it Wolff said that, "[o]ne of the most intriguing things about Graves's life is that it appears always to be moving toward greater clarity and resolution. In fact, one could almost say that his life has been one long, ongoing process of healing and reconciliation which has taken him, slowly but inexorably, from a condition of profound frustration and longing to one of relative wholeness and peace."
He had a singular way of expressing a deep connection to nature through his altar-like still lifes. When I returned from spending time in his former studio, walking through his still intact temple of a house, rowing across the lake, experiencing the wet fern lined trails, trying to take in the Redwood trees, I felt inspired to create a new body of work. Work like a prayer to plant life, to all that supports us here on earth. It has been a good journey an investigation that is not over.
But I find myself in a place of pause now, as an injured arm heals, contemplating what is next. Feeling gratitude for all that has brought me to this place of rest in spite of the inconvenience. I too have "a glimpse of continuing" and what it might be to live to be 84 plus and still create; to come to the essence of the matter, to beauty, to relative wholeness and peace.
Morris Graves in his garden.
Los Angeles County Museum of Art
Exhibition: Morris Graves, The Nature of Things
Disintegrated and Reanimated, Morris Graves
Throughout his life, Morris Graves lived in remote settings, drawing inspiration from the close observation of nature and imbuing his subjects—predominately animals and plants— with poetic and symbolic qualities. A native of the Pacific Northwest, Graves pursued this singular artistic vision, deliberately maintaining his distance, both geographically and conceptually, from the contemporary New York art scene despite the sudden acclaim he received after exhibiting at MoMA in 1942.
Morris Graves: The Nature of Things features a focused ensemble of the artist’s works from the 1930s to 1950s, a pivotal period in his career. The early paintings and exquisite works on paper, largely from LACMA’s collection, are on display in tandem with select objects from the museum’s Chinese, Japanese and Nepalese holdings. Together they highlight the ways that Asian aesthetics and philosophy informed Graves’s oeuvre.
My elders have said to me that the trees are the teachers of the law. As I grow less ignorant I begin to understand what they mean. -Brook Medicine Eagle
The Temple of Many Sapphires is the title to a recent painting I completed in 2014. It refers to a healing space and a hidden mandala or circle-like a medicine wheel -that resides behind the palest pink curtain of paint in the center. There is a certain alchemy to the mediums in this painting (enamel, oil and metallic brass leaf applied to a panel) that give the piece a reflective quality. Light shifts throughout the day and makes it an ever changing image, the mediums make the surface sensual- sort of medicine for the eyes and heart.
The image also alludes to plant medicine, there are several leaf patterns in the painting that are made with vintage Japanese stencils. The central leaf design is from a Paulownia tree which has heart-shaped leaves, it is a reference to fertility, the fruit of the tree produces thousands of tiny seeds, suggested above each leaf in the stencil.
The trees are talking to us, the plants are important teachers on the planet as they nurture us each day. I have been reading and rereading The Lost Language of Plants by a brilliant ecologist, Stephen Harrod Buhner. He states, plants were here long before we were, they are our parents on earth in very significant ways. They provide all the materials for our essential needs, nurture us, clean our air, help bring into existence weather patterns and give us medicine. I hope we will begin to see the importance of being ecologically discerning with each step we take in nature, we need a greater sense of maturity for healing our tendency toward self-destruction. In these times of discord in the world, I hope we will, one day soon, awaken to the perfection of life as it was once upon a time. And to see earth, the waters, the animals and the vegetation as a vast temple of many.
The Evidence of History
The Temple of Knowledge of Healing, 2014
Collection Gloria Larrieu, Michigan
This study presupposes to call as such the phenomenon triggering the spiritual and
physical beauty, which everyone touched by art is able to feel, from the point when
several components combine to form one whole. -Kokarova Vassilena
Several new/revisted paintings for a show, Devotions, 2014 inspire me to revise my artist statement. After an interesting dialogue with two friends yesterday, Hershel Weiss and Hector Contreras I want to express my sincere gratitude for their time and energy spent over several hours, after a delicious breakfast, talking about my new work. The Temple of Devotion; Spring, Summer, Falling Snow; The Temple of Many Sapphires and ten smaller text based images were birthed during a frenzy of activity in just a few weeks preceding the show. But each of the three large pieces has a longer history, another story or a pentimento -as the writer Lillian Hillman phrased-something under something that is concealed, a correction or adjustment to the composition. The word pentimento according to my recent google search is Italian, meaning repentance from the verb pentirsi, to repent. Usually this term is used in art to refer to a single painting that an individual artist created. It generally refers to a correction made in the process of that creation only revealed by the use of X-ray. For instance the adjustment of a limb on the image of a body that the artist revised in the process of composing the painting. In my use of the term here, the adjustment has come much later to a fully realized painting that I significantly changed after some years. In the case of one piece, The Temple of Devotion, this has been a ten year process. The truth of this painting is in all of the layers, the ones that are visible to the naked eye, as well as the ones below the surface.
Each of the three large 48 x 48 inch pieces in this series have traces, evidence from the previous work-underlayers. They are reclaimed and reincarnated into new images which carry the history and spirit of the old. In an essay on Interpictuality- the author says,
"In certain artists the quotation can have the shape of a self-interpicturality. In some the quotation can have the shape of a re-painting. Certain artists transform the repainting into a continual repainting or a variation of the same work." 1
The words, interpicturality as well as intertextuality and intermediality are new to me. Though the conceptual aspect of these words has become second nature to me; in our global existence we continually cross reference in conversation and every time we make a search on the World Wide Web. Derived from the Latin intertexto, meaning to intermingle while weaving, the term intertextuality was formulated by Julia Kristeva-who wrote in the 1960's about shaping meaning in text through the use other texts, into a unified whole. Shaping meaning or image by the layering of multiple references, parallels my process as I write this on my Mac computer in a program called TextEdit. I am engaged in the process of intertextuality while multiple windows are open on my desk top: a Wikipedia definition of the word; an essay by Koralova Vassilena on The Interartistic Phenomenon; another on Interpicturality in Braun-Vega's Paintings; all of this on top of a digital image of one of my paintings as a screen saver-another layered image. Like it or not, it is the world we live in now, mulit-layered windows open on our desktops forever shifting the way that we engage with information and images.
Were it not for the computer and the digital age we live in, I wonder if my work would develop as it has, I wonder whether other artists would have given themselves permission to work with interpicturallity. We see the birth of this in both Picasso's and Braque's earliest collages, where there is a layering of images sourced from various media. To paraphrase what my friend Hector said in our conversation, "the observer needs to connect through their intuition to the work of art. What the artist does is to provide conditions of meaning."* They do that through the media, perhaps the title, the scale, color, texture, etc. The conditions of meaning might also include other factors like location, light, sound, etc. We do live in a new age far different than artists worked in even a generation ago. We weave in and out of so much each day on our screens, a plethora of possibility with media.
Inspiration: A Japanese Textile
I love stories and as time seems to move faster and faster into our collective future, I believe we need our stories more. I do not believe we leave behind the past but carry it forward with us in the cells of our inner librarian. My work as an artist is about reconsidering history, the layers of media act as metaphors for this personal quest. My favorite aunt and uncle recently passed away, earlier this year, within two months of one another. A piece of extraordinary cloth that they had brought back from Japan after WWII impressed me as a child. It is a silver threaded masterpiece of weaving, a silk cloth for an obi-the broad sash worn around the waist over a kimono. My aunt had a long piece of it framed vertically and it always hung in their living room. It has a pattern of trees, pineor pinon type trees that appear to be flying through a silvery space. After their recent memorial service my brother sent it to me and I now have the great pleasure to live with everyday.
Both my father and my uncle served in the military during WWII. My uncle, a surgeon, was stationed on a military base, I believe, in Yokahama and my father was a paratrooper sent there during the U.S. occupation post-war. The work I am doing now and just previous to this (see Plum Blossoms for Adversity) is connected to their time there and acts as a sort of healing to the wounds they suffered psychologically and emotionally. The obi cloth threads, the weft and warp of it still inspire me.
All these factors, afford me as a 21st century artist the ability as Vassilena says, "to be better able to express the inexpressible...."2 And that is my ultimate goal, to be better able to express that which is beyond words or images. The spirit of these paintings is meant to convey sacred stories, the text of which continues to arise out of the heart and soul of me. Often the greater meaning runs ahead of me and I catch up to it later. The pentimento of these pieces connects to the past, as a healing balm for what transpired in the world before my generation was born and to the present.
* "The Conditions of Meaning is a phrase Hector Contreras coined during our conversation June 21, 2014 in reference to my exhibition, Devotions.
1. Dr. Kubilay Aktulum, INTERPICTURALITY IN BRAUN-VEGA’S PAINTINGS
2. The Interartistic Phenomenon, Kolarova Vassilena
Artist Statement January 2013
ORIGIN mid 17th cent. (in the sense [restore to life, give life to] ; formerly also as inliven): from 16th-cent. enlive, inlive (in the same sense), from en- 1 , in- 2 (as an intensifier) + life .
A canary was sitting on my bed yesterday, right in front of a stack of pillows on a duvet -covered comforter. It is January and my bed is dressed for winter nights. The canary, (we just met last week), is a recent adoption. He came from a friend who has cancer and feels less than able to take care of him. I am pleased to know this little creature, Piccolo, I think we are going to be a good match. As he is singing his beautiful song as I type, yes, I am very pleased to make his acquaintance. He is known as a Red-factor canary, bred to produce red feathers depending on his diet. But now he is more a mixture of cadmium orange and lemon yellow. Piccolo got out of his cage yesterday, all my fault, as I was cavalier in opening the largest door wide during the action of changing the papers on the floor of the cage.
It was perhaps a subconscious move on my part, to see how he would react, never-the less, I was surprised. He saw the opportunity to spread his wings and went for it. Then spent the entire day hopping and flying around my bedroom, hiding under a mirrored nightstand or behind a chair while I vainly attempted to rescue him. Since he hasn't had much opportunity to fly during his four or five years of life, I suppose I feel kind of sorry for him. And so I let him have as much time as he wanted, took a relaxed attitude about it -what else could I do-and marveled at the wonder of him throughout the day. I came and went from the room, careful to close the door lest he get out into the rest of my house.
Seeing this tiny winged one sitting on the bed looking so absolutely charming, a brilliant yellow life on the white comforter quickened my pulse. His presence lifting the spirit of the space as he moved from an upholstered chair seat to the floor, then again, flying across the room landing on an Asian cabinet like a living figurine with feathers amongst the framed family photos. And that brings me to the subject of painting. It's all about animation right now. Light and animation. All about making something that references nature but in an ever changing way. I am working with metallic leaf, composite materials of aluminum and brass, applied in thin layers with varnish to the surface of prepared panels. I let the leafing make it's way to the tacky varnish when it is almost but not fully dry and with the lightest touch like a feather, press it down. Sometimes a whole leaf will adhere perfectly without a blemish but more often, it cracks, splits apart and reveals the under-color in the process. I have to accept the organic aspects of this medium and surrender to the nature of the delicate material. The grid structure the shiny square pieces applied in formation along side the unexpected irregular breaks give the pieces both order and chaos, something like a garden. But it is the way the overall effect of the metallic finish reflects light that I most respond to. There is no way to capture the changing luster of these paintings photographically. They never look the same way twice. They change at all hours of the day, with the seasons, at dawn and dusk, reflecting what is around them. As you move in front of them, your refection glides across the surface, evident in a subtle way, as are the other elements in the room, be that a canary or a jade plant. I have had to surrender to a semblance of the truth in documenting them because there is no one truth to them.
The Flora Series is a continuation of a body of work I started last year, early in 2012. I wasn't sure when I started this work where it would take me, I only knew that something needed to change about my process to accommodate me in the space I work in. I am fortunate to live in a semi-rural neighborhood in New Mexico. Urban enough to have community and just enough of what matters to me in terms of landscape: a white horse across the road named Sunday and six goats he lords over, an old massive cottonwood tree. Always the pace of nature around me, especially in the spring when Rose, my land-lady makes her organic garden available and a field in the back which abut's a park. But the little house/casita I live in is small and though not nearly ideal in size for a large scale oil painter, it makes up for in character and location. A friend of mine, also a painter, once told me of a scene from a film she saw about an artist. The artist only had an armoire and an area rug to call a studio. I always think back to this vision fondly, a romantic notion, yes, and as a serious consideration. That is, in some ways, all we need as artists, everything else is a luxury.
Piccolo inspired me when he left his cage for a day, the confines of which are, for the most part, all he has ever known. He animated my space with his curiosity, stretched his wings into my imagination and helped me to consider how these paintings enliven the spaces they exist in, how they receive light and reflect it back. It is a question I am still considering and no doubt will for some time. It's a dance and I am still learning the steps. And oh yeah, Piccolo is back in his cage singing his beautiful song.
For more of a dialogue on my process, here is a link to a conversation I was part of at Humboldt State University in 2010, with Kirsten Dorje, Lang Julian, Lynn Risling and Deborah Gavel -PAINTING SPIRIT: A Four Part Conversation http://humboldt-dspace.calstate.edu/handle/2148/37
Artist Statement 2012
First for the “artist” himself when he paints a piece, and then for the people who are later going to work on seeing this image, to meditate on it and its meaning—and what is more, through this meditation, finally to make the divinity herself appear.
-Franck Andre Jamme
In May of 2011 I was graced with the opportunity to have an artist-in-residency at the Morris Graves Foundation in Loleta, California. My new work is in response to that time in nature, connecting with the primal Redwood forested land there, walking the wet fern-lined trails to a waterfall. And in response to the absolute wonder of seeing a bald eagle flying across my field of vision three days in a row over the lake outside the studio space.
In this moment, I feel on fire with a breath of life that I have not felt before. Sometimes there is a creative urge that wells up like a torch song, deep and sensual. Creativity can manifest itself through the body in many ways, all at the same time. Sometimes it is slow and melancholy for me, or inspiration comes in suddenly like a hiccup in unexpected jolts but does not last. There have been years where a sort of static agitates my body the way a radio station not quite on the mark does, during those times the path as an artist is a struggle to bear with; my clarity is hard to find. For now, in this moment, it is springtime and the birds are chirping and bees are active in the field behind my casita in New Mexico. Life is bursting from the earth in welcome abundance this year. The wisteria in bloom around the neighborhood has never been so fecund and the forever sweet scent of lilacs, my favorite flower, wafts through the airwaves. In the garden outside, though it is still early, much is growing. Everything is reborn and resounding gratitude drips from my brushes.
Fertility expressed everywhere, the wonder of baby green leaves appearing on winter trees, bursting out clouds of tenderness onto the landscape. With brushes in my hands, oil paint on my fingertips, I want to match the orgy of birds and bees mating around me. My long desire is to visually express the mysterious wonder of all that is; I think I understand better what the Baroque period of the 17th century was all about. Embellishing the palaces of France and Italy with the most extreme extravagance found in the gardens of nature at springtime.
Stephen H. Buhner, in his book, The Secret Teachings of the Plants explains why Science gets it wrong when thinking compartmentalizes any aspect of being. “Life will never be found in the DNA nor any part of the whole. Life is the thing that is more than the sum of the parts...” We are together in this experience, one superorganism with earth and we cannot exist without other--plants, animals and minerals. My current work is about an imaging of that idea.
A new book of Tantric tempera, gouache and watercolors on paper from Rajasthan, India, I have only seen in reproductions, has inspired my current body of work. What makes these small pieces so compelling is the character of the handmade papers, which has become stained and randomly marked over time, adding something to the overall effect akin to modern art. I bow to the anonymous artists who made these abstract Tantric meditations in an attempt “to make divinity herself appear.”*
In this moment, working with the alchemy of metallic leaf, beeswax and oil, I am enjoying a reverie with mediums - I am thinking about what a painting might look like that weaves the music of Lana Del Rey with the teachings of the Dali Lama- goddess lounge singer meets the sacred path- with full appreciation for the merging of the sensual and the spiritual.
* for more on Tantric Song
Artist Statement 2009
The Pharmacology of Nature
It is clear we are in a sea change of experience. For some the world seems to be falling apart
while others see this as a time of great potential for immense change. In the studio I meditate on the
latter; I am involved in making images that reflect a sense of a flowering of hope for humanity and the
environment around the globe. My new work is an effort to communicate an awareness about our
changing environment through painting. Nature is a theatre of textures and colors, all of it medicinal,
every flower, every substance has the potential to be healing. I am interested in the connection be-
tween creativity and our evolution.
Two new paintings, Milk and Honey, True Love and Milk and Honey, Nirvana perhaps best express
these thoughts. They are amalgams, the result of many materials and combined influences along my
journey as an artist-- Tibetan mandalas (Thanka paintings,) a love of pattern in nature, textiles from
indigenous cultures, and long walks in New Mexico. They are offerings of beauty in these troubled
Often I am influenced by what I am reading and currently rereading, James Elkins’s book: What
Painting Is has greatly affected my teaching as well my studio time. Elkins’s book attempts to unfold
the act of painting and that unlanguaged time artists spend in their studios, mixing and stirring like
alchemists working with “water and stones,” the basic ingredients common to both painting and al-
chemy. Elkins’s brilliant sentence, “painting is liquid thought,” says it best. In the studio I am chef and
sous-chef, a little mad scientist experimenting with ingredients, answerable only to my intuitive re-
sponse to the physical qualities of paint.
A recent “recipe” of wax, gold leaf, turquoise stones, glitter and broken French porcelain has turned
the tactile surface of my oil paintings into something approaching assemblage. But it is the spiritual
qualities of these substances or the potential for that which drives me in the studio, --the idea that
painting like alchemy can be about the pursuit of an ultimate aim, transformation/evolution, appeals to
my artisan nature. Working with material matter in a quest for truth and beauty, the methods, like the
mythology of alchemy, can be obscure. Yet it is just that mysterious quality, ever elusive, which com-
pels me to continue the quest.
In the broadest sense, my work is multi-cultural. It has a “heritage” that is as diverse as my own
Eastern European and Native American ancestry. My paternal Grandmother, who was a Polish immi-
grant and spoke little English, communicated with me through other means. I remember the shelves
in her dining room always had elaborately painted Easter eggs resting in little stands. The eggs were
covered with intricate floral designs, using a wax- resist method. She was also an alchemist, trans-
forming eggs, flour, water and golden raisins into the greatest bread. My childhood memories are
framed in a sort of synesthesia of sight and taste, a merging of my senses to experience visual pat-
terns as something delicious. Essentially, this work, like my Grandmother’s bread, is about an en-
gagement with the physical senses, a sensibility that reaches toward a visual seduction and a culture
of the heart.