I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN DRAWN TO HORIZONS. That place where one discrete mass—or system—interfaces with another, creating a third entity unlike the other two. I continue to believe that if I focus on that in my art, I can somehow find the secret of what really happens there. Working with stacked rectangles, I paint shapes filled with energy—straining outward against the membrane that contains them, against the edges of the canvas, against the picture plane itself. Against each other. By allowing these systems to exert force against each other, I can better understand the dynamic in a horizon.
Possibly more challenging is where entities almost touch. The interstice between the two masses is charged with tension—tension that I continue to explore again and again. I believe that Mark Rothko solved that riddle—at least on his own terms. I must solve it on mine.
THE IDEA OF ORBS—or seeds or eggs or atoms—began in a poem I wrote as a young woman. About experiencing a sea change from within. I cannot find the poem but do remember a few lines that go something like this:
All seed atoms
now have recomposed
and there is one center
Like the rectangle, the orbs are filled with an intense energy. But here the energy exerts pressure evenly against the entirety of the skin that contains it, creating a kind of rapt stasis. They can be single or numerous—massed together tightly, or moving and growing—and have came to more closely resemble seeds like one would find in a pod, seeds that eventually free themselves. And escape.
MY TRAINING AT PRATT INSTITUTE and elsewhere taught me to work with oil on canvas. I favored working with glazes and will probably return to them again some day. But a few years ago I was introduced to watercolors accidentally. I liked its luminosity and spontaneity and so I continue to explore its possibilities. And while it poses challenges, I have discovered techniques that create surprises and go beyond my own ideas of what I wish to achieve.