“I returned to my Holy Mountain, possessing knowledge from over a hundred hosts, but still knowing nothing about my origins. I had tired of wandering. The Holy Mountain was the only place on Earth I felt any tie to. For a decade I inhabited the monks who lived on its mountainsides. I led a tranquil enough life. I found companionship with an old woman who lived in a tea shack and believed I was a speaking tree. That was the last time I spoke with a human.

One writer in Buenos Aires even suggested a name for what I am: noncorpum, and noncorpa, if ever the day dawns when the singular becomes a plural.”

-David Mitchell

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the gesture of nature

`·.¸¸.···._.·

“We live in all we seek. The hidden shows up in too-plain sight. It lives captive on the face of the obvious - the people, events, and things of the day - to which we as sophisticated children have long since become oblivious. What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.”

-Annie Dillard


“We are the earth’s organs and limbs; we are syllables God utters from his mouth.”

-Annie Dillard

,.- ` ~ ' -.,

It is an odd feeling creating something which you don't fully grasp, but know enough to understand the potential

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Searching for magic in the largest and smallest scales

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I wanted to be a detective when I was little.... tracing roots back... figuring out connections. secret messages, puzzles, systems, connections

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Points on a map… tracking the routes that time takes

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Like ‘desire paths’ forging their own way and finding connections organically

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A series of connections... stringing one moment to the next

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Invite and incorporate chance, mistakes, improvisation and imperfection as all part of a journey and integral to the whole and what comes next. One image leads to the next and to the next etc. Reflections of a scattered mind on a journey of imperfection

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Unearthing, not creating

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noncorpa

As I return to a mountaintop there’s an electric stillness about me and inside me. I traced the edge of a mountain path much like the torn edges of paper. The valley below records the thickness of the air and the moments of dimming light and expanding space. Distances of times past and the physical space ahead become relative. I pick up a larvae woven twig… I reach and grasp a distant mountain; I feel those past pilgrims who walked alongside me. The path of life draws me to a divine reflection upon such landscapes.


These works are moments woven through one another and filled with a spiritual glow. Currently composed of three verses, they are a disembodied wandering within a sea of connections. At first searching for origins, then journeying out into the landscape, and later a remapping that leads to a common story. The process of recording, printing, tearing, marking, and wearing-down is my walk into this unknown and the embrace of what is to be found there. These details instill a sense of the history in cherished objects and portray the delicate nature of creating a relic. A nothing sort of souvenir, but something that hopes to unite across disparate entities to tell us that we all breathe together as one.