Her name was June. I was in the passenger seat of her Subaru with her beagle on my lap, watching the Catskill Mountains fly by outside the window. The sun was high, the sky was clear, and the car's air conditioning was cranked to help us combat the mid-summer heat. Suddenly, I felt the car slow down with an abrupt force that jolted Pearl and me forward in our seat. June pulled her car onto the shoulder of the road, reached across me to access her glovebox, and extracted a pair of shiny silver scissors. She bolted from the car with excitement and briefly disappeared into a patch of tall, swaying grass just off the side of the road. Moments later, she emerged with a huge grin and fist full of wildflowers.

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I learned a lot from watching June create this small moment of joy for herself. June taught me how to look. How to see. She moved through the world actively in search of beauty and good. June was an artist, and there was no distinction between how she created inside and outside of her studio. She was constantly on the hunt for potential - everything was romantic. 

And that, ultimately, is why I make art. I make art that is a celebration of collecting small, significant moments. My work is an invitation to the experience of touching and being touched. My work is small scale because the most important moments tend to be quiet and intimate. I utilize low contrast colors because the most meaningful things deserve our very close attention. Subtle changes in tone and saturation invite closer inspection and allow form and tactility to take center stage. The haptic experience - the experience of touching - is the most important design element in my work. 

 

That day in the car, June showed me how to coax joy from places I did not know I could look for it. She showed me that there is always time to pause and take notice.

Now, with this body of work, I offer you a respite from this increasingly chaotic world.