I grew up on the High Plains in the Texas Panhandle, and that is where I first learned to take nothing seriously. Emptiness plays an important role in both my poetry and my painting: I often find myself spending as much time on what is not there as on what is. This usually means focusing on a single image and letting the whole composition spring up around it — not a narrative but an all at once that evokes a here and now that is, here, now, neither. A likely story is likely to grow out of this when readers and viewers encounter it, but I hope my art always invites more than it contains.
I walked with a friend in the North Cascades in Washington, and I tugged on his arm. “Don’t you see the way the light looks like someone dunked that mountain into an aquarium?” I said. “Don’t you see we’re lucky?” But I feel that way when I notice twigs on the sidewalk or sunlight on a doorknob. So I took photos and I wrote a little bit about people I met. I worked and traveled, and I didn’t try very hard to publish or sell what I did. Then I hit my head on an icy hill in Washington, and I decided I better start trying.