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I learned to embroider when I was a little girl. Later came sewing, knitting, crocheting, and weaving. Textile arts taught me to appreciate the finest details – the importance of the beauty of both sides. Being a perfectionist was a curse.

I make things out of found objects. I’m attracted to things that are well crafted, once essential with a specific purpose. I believe that everything has a history. I like searching through decades of basement detritus, often indescribable junk presenting itself at its most vulnerable -- filthy, rusty, broken and misshapen -- perhaps the last stop before the trash. I may not know what an object is, but it brings a patina, a fingerprint of its past life to my worktable. When the histories of these objects are joined, an unexpected piece of work appears.

Working with objects is a process. I’m first drawn to a piece, then search for something else that might work, then another and another. I sometimes explore options to a point of overload, where a decision waits for clarity, or not at all. I feel it in my stomach. When it’s right, it’s right. And when it isn’t, it’s not.

A few years ago a friend called asking me if I would be interested in some of her dad’s old engineering tools. He had passed away forty-plus years ago and the family didn’t know what to do with them. I jumped at the chance. The tools were beautiful. Calipers, compasses, protractors, slide rules. It was joyous work and the beginning of an internal conversation about legacy. What are the tools? What were they used for?  My work continues to be influenced by these questions.


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