Book One Series
Line compels me. I collect images, “bits of reality” and collage them into a ground. I add, cover, cut, splice until a dialogue is imminent. The next, and final, exhaustive stage is to find my story. I must find it. Each line leads to it, leads to another, limits the next line’s possibilities, limits my story’s potential, my distance achieved on the path of lead. In the end I hear only muffled voices. I turn the page in visceral need, compelled by line to begin, again…
A sylph is, through antiquity, a spirit of or embodying characteristics of the element air.
Sylph is a mark, stain, scar, tattoo, on my mind.
She refuses to be ignored or forgotten.
She is shown here caught in the act of appropriation.
She has made my art her womb, made it nurturing, sympathetic, a cocoon.
She emerges triumphant in her theft.
She stares at me… at you, there is no apology in her gaze, only a message burned into my life.
“I am you, you are me, together, one”