Making art is a lonely and layered business, and it helps if there is some kind of love involved.  My first great lonely love was line, and the human form its ultimate aim.  But even as I cut my teeth on the study of physicality and flesh, I sensed something less purely demonstrable within my compulsion to catch at things.  In my youth I referred to this “thing” as The Moment, and I am still liable to resort to the term when other words fail, as they like to do.  A moment, strictly speaking, is something that defies the straight glance.  It also requires propping and must be represented if one means to account for it.  I, like many who came before me, need the solace of the sensible—or that which holds still.  A moment does not hold still.  But something done in a moment will, or can, if one uses a tool in a certain way.  I like simple tools best.  I like, even, bad tools—ones that are regular, but just a little reluctant.

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