Marking Site, Site Specific Installation at The Jacksonville Arboretum, Fall 2013

One of the three site-specific pieces I installed at the Jacksonville Arboretum. The piece consists of three round mirrors, approx. 6 inch diameter, placed under the water, next to a foot bridge. The reflection of the tree canopy  is seen as the viewer walks across the foot bridge, distorting ones sense of space. 

Inspired by the histories of throwing objects in water. 

TACTILE SYSTEMS, Kent Gallery, 2013, Curated by Mark Creegan and Dustin Harewood

Formal elements such as color, line, shape and texture melded as well as the sensual and spiritual context of our work.  Thank you to Mark and Dustin for making the vision happen.

Red Pillows With Pearls

Three pillows.  Felt, wax, pearls, thread.
Details of the pillows on my website.  Link is to the right.

A total of four tables with steel legs are in the show.  

Sacred Terrain

View of felt piece on top of table.  Stitching on dyed felt.

Sacred Terrain

Detail.

Blue Weeping.  

Felt, dye, yarn, thread.  An ode to the weeping willow tree.

Pink Cradles Sheltered and Exposed.  

Ceramic and air dry porcelain clay.
Details of the clay forms on my website.  Link is to the right.

Pi's Ocean

This piece floats in space.  Stacked felt dyed with indigo ink, silver thread flows 

over the side.  Various stitches are on sewn into top layer. 

Examined and Forgotten

Stitching on felt. Felt is stacked on table.  Below is a detail view.
Pink is dyed paper with colored pencil under a domed magnifying glass. 

Lost in the forest… by Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest...

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent. 

Pablo Neruda