A tangled mess of individual lines and scribbles: some no more than an inkless impression on the page, others so loud that the page curls around it. Every line different but all from the same pen, every pen different but all held by the same hand. Hundreds of thousand of lines all forever bound to their page. Mistakes inerasable and sacrifices made for the sake of form. Sacrifices that at the most extreme include starting over, but generally meant minor distortions in the subtle loss of value, only seen by their orchestrator. I found myself within my pen and I have found myself unable to live without it. I often asked myself which line I am to be on my page and what role my line is to have in my page’s form: a mistake, a cover-up, or a stroke that makes the piece?


If Winter was a color

Memories of

A Faded Landscape

Portraits and other Fractured Landscapes

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