I learned to observe the world from my poet mother and from my grandfathers who performed magic tricks and asked expert questions. I learned to work with my hands from my woodworker father and my grandmothers who cooked Sicilian delicacies and played piano duets. From them I learned the power of working deeply into whatever boundaries are encountered and the immense, unexpected creative territory that is revealed when choices are limited.
For the past sixteen years I have limited my building materials primarily to concrete and whatever is needed to support it (such as wood and metal for forming). I began using concrete for its relationship to architecture and its fundamental connection to our built environment, for its ability to behave like a blob of mud or to be transformed into highly polished surface, and for its ubiquity in the world. This material allows me to mold, cast, carve, pour, drill – to build up or break down. In its simplicity, the material allows me to focus on being honest with what I make and, as I try to interpret how I see and experience the world, to slowly discover how to control the complexity of the objects.
The concrete sculptures are built from the ground up, in one continuous action. This process mirrors my experience of moving through time - the accumulation of memories and events - and my interpretation of the landscape, with its slow building up of growth and geologic material. The sculptures are cast in moveable layers that disassemble and reassemble like a vertically stacked puzzle. They can be deconstructed, transported, and reconstructed by hand. Each reassembly of a piece echoes the actions of its original making process and is, at the same time, recreated in a new time, a new environment, and with new intention.
Making helps me understand the world and gives me hope. Making helps me learn how things go together, how things come apart, and helps me to see the world. There is so much to learn; I treasure every scrap of understanding I can get.