There is this strange conundrum to becoming an older woman, and I'm just coming to understand it now.

You feel so full of power and energy to make things better, and yet so overwhelmed by all that needs your attention, that requires nurturing and attending to.

And yet it is also compounded by moments of real exhaustion, both mental and physical.

What keeps me going is all of these women.

I think of each of them and their extraordinary gifts, and it bolsters me.

It reminds me it can be done and without complaint or suffering.

Just quietly, heroically done.

Each of these creative women, who I consider close friends, actively leads with their heart.

You have to be both vulnerable and brave to truly embrace that stance.

And they do.

It's inspirational for me.

It's a very supportive environment.

They've been working for long enough.

They tend to have a lot of confidence.

They don't feel terribly competitive.

They're at ease with the choices they've made.

I think one of the things about being a woman is you're always supposed to be giving, energy going out of you, and, you know, they feel like that's sort of what being an artist is.

It's being of service in the world.

That can be a beautiful thing.

And then there's a difficult part about that too, which is the part where you feel like you're depleted.

You need some of the energy flowing in the other direction.

I have no objectivity when it comes to thinking about the importance of this group of women.

I have known them for so many years.

I'm grateful for how intensely caring each of them are.

How important it is for me to have friends I can share the vulnerabilities of making art.

Just to talk, to have that language is essential in my life.

One of my professors told us in class one day, You need to make your art long enough until you start believing in it, and then others will start believing in it too.

The importance of our group simply is we all believe in each other.

We know we can give each other unfettered support.

Get honest, smart criticism and advice and delight in simply being together.

(laughter) I grew up in Golden, Colorado.

It was a long time ago when it was a much emptier state.

And we lived on a mesa.

One of my favorite activities as a child was actually to lay in the grass and watch the clouds and think about what they looked like to me.

I was definitely a dreamer.

I used to love to go to the rope swing and just hear the water and be under the tree.

I had a sense of comfort, I think, in the outdoors.

I wasn't what I would call highly physical as a kid.

I enjoyed leisure, leisure in the outdoors.

My mother lived to be 96 years old.

She was a very instrumental figure in my life.

She was a very strong person, very independent.

She loved to travel.

She loved handicrafts, things that were made by hand.

She was always collecting old embroidery or old tablecloths.

She was also giving me a sense throughout my life that I could do anything I wanted, that I didn't need a man, for instance, to be fulfilled.

I think she was completely flummoxed when she saw the work I made.

I don't think she quite knew how to imagine where it came from inside of me.

Like, who is that person?

I make experimental animation.

I have a very unique technique that's partly the result of my inability to work in other ways.

I take images out of silent films, usually images of women from the silent era, actors like Lillian Gish, Janet Gaynor, Mary Pickford and I'll take image sequences and repurpose those images and put them into collages.

So I make thousands of physical collages.

And they're constructed from these images that I take out of silent films in combination with engravings and illustrations from the 18th and 19th century.

And I create these new narratives, essentially.

They're not necessarily obvious narratives, but for me, there's a kind of thread that moves through the story.

I think I am attracted to things that give me a sense of wonder that I can't explain fully.

I'm attracted to things that have a sense of having aged in a way.

We used to spend a lot of time in junk stores, and I think that feeling of time that you sense when you're in a place where everything around you has been worn or is old in some way, is something that I was very familiar with.

Time is so elemental to filmmaking.

You have time to start in one place and go to another, and you can show that process, that in between.

I think it allows for so much exploration.

It's a kind of paradise of possibility.

I find that invigorating.

I mean, I thought, well, why can't I make still images?

Everyone else is making them.

And I just don't think they'd speak enough in the way I'm used to having things speak for me.

Having time is a critical part of how I've come to, kind of, see the world in certainly my work.

I think also, though, I am interested in exploring interiority.

It fascinates me.

I feel like the world within is as vast as the world without and as mysterious, for sure.

Obviously, it's my interiority, even though I like to think that if I communicate well, somehow there will be a sharing.

People will recognize elements of themselves.

I have no idea what other people's interiority is like, but I do feel like we share this, you know, ability to imagine.

We all have the ability to imagine.

And there's no limit to what that can mean.

I had a very pivotal experience as a young adult where I was living in Latin America for about seven years, and I think that experience really has marked me in a certain way.

There was a certain relationship to nature that was pretty unique and a kind of luxurious embrace of mystery.

There was a sense of this hidden world that would present itself in daily life and be taken quite literally.

Little things like, oh, you knocked over a cup of coffee that could have metaphoric significance.

That could be a directive.

There was also very much an embracing of the sense of shapeshifting that animals could talk to you, for instance.

They were so in touch with nature, it was like they could see at night in a way that I couldn't.

And when I came back, there was an element of that that I carried with me and I brought into my work.

So yes, there's lots of animals in my work or there's some kind of sense of things shifting and transitions, and nothing is really static.

What I'm trying to communicate in my work is a bit ineffable, to be honest.

It has something to do with love.

It has something to do with love, and it has something to do with this sense of wonder and openness to creation.

I have enormous respect for our infinitesimally, for our tinyness, for how, you know, for our insignificance.

I guess I want to show some kind of an appreciation for the complexity of life.

When I discovered animation, for me, it was kind of a way of using the visual world to try to express some of these poetic ideas that I'm talking about.

Just that literal physical process of gluing one thing on top of another, I feel like it gave me access to some part of my consciousness, maybe associated with memory and the way memories are layered.

It's also quite associative and unpredictable.

I don't know where it's going, so it's like I'm on an adventure, and I'm trying to see where that adventure is going to take me.

And I think I've been very lucky that I've been able to pursue this eccentric, kind of idiosyncratic way of thinking about the world.

It is a privilege, obviously, to be able to do that.

Having children is a huge part of who I am as a person.

I had my first daughter when I was 21.

I've had children kind of my whole life, and I think, I think that I am by nature a nurturing person.

So, for sure, there's elements of that that are extremely present in my work.

I feel like there's a yearning for connection.

There's a sense of trying to protect.

All of my women actors are children trying to become women.

They had a sense of vulnerability, I think, built into their persona, and they were always cast with men who would either take advantage of them or save them.

They never were able to really direct their own lives.

They were victims of some sort of either social or personal force that was directing their life for them.

So I'm trying to imbue them with a power that they're not actually given in the films I've taken them from.

It's like I'm nurturing them in a way.

So in that sense, I hadn't thought of it before, but it actually is quite a maternal kind of thing.

They could all be my daughters.

I have used my filmmaking as a friend.

It's a place where I feel a lot of openness to the world, because I'm comfortable.

And I'm doing something very small that's kind of insignificant and is taking a lot of effort.

And I find that reassuring on some level.

I grew up in Northern California with a mother who I think wanted to be an artist, and I was one of those kids who was born knowing what I wanted to do.

Maker, always making things.

And she recognized that.

She just put things in front of me.

She was always like, Here's a whole bunch of materials, and here's an artist and here's a poet, and here's a musician... just always taking me to see different things.

You know, I had various and sundry responses to those things as a little kid.

And one memory that really sticks with me was when she took me to MoMA.

I think it was my first time at MoMA.

I think I was like 5 or 6.

I saw a Mondrian painting and I remember thinking, well, it's just these rectangles and squares of solid colors.

Only a few colors.

How hard can it be?

And so I said to her, Well, I could do that.

You know, the typical little kid response.

But she was great.

She said, Yeah, but you didn't think of it.

Some kind of light bulb went off in my head and I thought, oh, like, oh, now I get it.

When Christo had the running fence that went Northern California down into the ocean, she took us to see that and we were like these bratty little kids.

And we said, That's just a piece of fabric going into the ocean.

What is that?

How's that art?

And she said, It doesn't matter if you like it or not.

What matters is, did it make you look at something in a different way than you might have looked at it?

Those experiences really early on just sort of helped me see what the nature of true creativity is.

Everything in the world has some kind of sensory experience with it, and art is a way to sort of activate that.

It's a way to put it out in the world so that it can be palpable for somebody else.

I used to make lists when I was little of my favorite things to do, or favorite ways of looking at the world.

So of course, marine biology was always one because I grew up by the ocean.

I've always been nature oriented.

I'm sort of happiest when I'm outside.

I think that there's really no way to compete with the amazing wonder and beauty in the world.

How do things smell and look and taste and feel and sort of all of it mixed together.

I like anything that has ambiguity or complexity to it, because I feel like that's what the natural world is.

There isn't really one answer or one way to do things.

It's kind of like a moving sea of interpretation, and I feel like that's kind of always at the core of my work.

I went on a trip to Borneo, and I went to this little fishing village where they were having this celebration, and they took all their fishing boats, and they decorated the fishing boats with these umbrellas.

They had embroidered the umbrellas and they did all these different things to the umbrellas.

And I took a ton of photographs.

And then I came home and I thought, I want to make umbrellas.

I'm going to make umbrellas.

And I decided to create an isohedron of umbrellas for a show on pleasure.

Each umbrella symbolized a different aspect of pleasure.

So one was made of chocolate and one was actually made of condoms, and... After I made them, I realized I couldn't get them all in the car at the same time because you couldn't close them.

So I thought, I'll have a procession.

And so I invited all my friends and I had a samba band play, and everybody followed the song, the band through the streets with the umbrellas, and then it culminated at the museum, putting them together in a in a giant sphere.

One of the most frequent questions that people ask me is... What kind of artist am I?

I'm not a ceramic artist.

I'm not a portrait painter.

I seem to work in a lot of different mediums.

I guess I don't really like the idea of being limited by what materials I might use.

So if I see something out in the world that inspires me, I think, well, why can't I make something out of that?

I like the freedom of being able to use anything and everything that comes my way.

I make things out of mostly natural objects, and I make things that have to do with multiples.

So there's a lot of different little tiny things that make up one whole piece.

I think of it as a challenge.

What's the next material that I fall in love with?

I really delve into every material that I come across, and I become obsessed with that material for often years at a time.

For instance, I made a cave out of mica and butterfly wings and bits of trash.

I pressed all the butterfly wings inside the mica and all the trash inside the mica, and then I sewed them together in 60,000 scales.

One of the things I love about mica is the transparency and the translucency of it, and the fact that it's a stone, it's a rock.

And I use the trash next to the butterfly wings because everybody thinks butterflies are beautiful, and then trash is ubiquitous and people are trying to get rid of it and they think it's ugly.

And so my idea was you treat both of those materials with the same reverence.

I feel like I am in that position a lot, of trying to explain what it is that I do, and maybe also to try to illuminate the ways that the things are connected, because they're not always connected in ways that are apparent to other people.

I mean, I guess ultimately artists want to be understood and they want to reach people.

And if people are unable to understand what you're doing, then that connection is lost.

So I think that part of my struggle is how do I keep true to my own vision, which is in the threads that connect things rather than what material you're actually working with?

I think it was Oscar Wilde who said, there's only one thing worse than being vulnerable, and that is being invulnerable.

And I think that making art is a way to calm yourself from really the broken world in peril.

The things that we are faced with, you know, globally, but also individually.

It's kind of like a coping mechanism.

As much as I think about being alone and how much I love to make and I would probably make in a vacuum and be fine, I think there's another part of it that has to do with connection, and it has to do with reaching out to others in the world and expressing, this is what it feels like for me.

Does that resonate with you?

Do you do you maybe feel this way?

And I don't think I have a definite idea they have to feel the same way that I feel.

But just to open that up for that exchange.

Here's what my version of taking my inner world and putting it out there for others to see looks like.

And yeah, it's not always easy.

And there are dark moments and there is a lot of self-doubt.

And so I have to explore that.

I guess I'm interested in kind of the mystery and the play that can happen between things that are sort of unexpected, how to surprise yourself.

And I think maybe it's also trying to understand ineffable things, how something might seem like it means something, but you're not sure what.

I try to channel that energy or the mystery of it.

In some ways, I don't really feel like it's about me.

I feel like it's about just being a conduit for how things move through you that are already in the world.

Reexamining it, seeing it in another way.

It's about play and experimenting.

And not everything you do is going to work.

That's a given.

But I do actually believe that art is the greatest healer.

I am so deeply moved by what the human hand can do and bring to life.

I think the human hand is this extraordinary, amazing tool because it's not just a tool, but it's connected to our head and our heart.

What I gravitate toward and what I look for, I think unconsciously, is evidence of the hand in things.

I grew up in Westchester County, in New York State.

My father worked in New York City, was a corporate lawyer.

My mother stayed at home and was a very serious gardener.

She thought about the garden as a painting, as a sculpture.

So many of our conversations, she would engage me in the aesthetic decisions she was making.

She influenced me both in terms of how I look at the world, how I feel like I have some power to shape the world around me but also be affected by it.

She was so encouraging, but also a great critic.

We've always been great friends.

She shared many of her stories and heartaches and desires and visions and dreams with me, and modeled that in a really generous way.

And we're still great friends.

I had this opportunity to go to Portugal to try and design a piece for a project that was going to be the Romantic Road.

I toured many, many different Romanesque churches and kept a notebook of all the motifs that were sort of knotted motifs that bound the outside of the church, sometimes bound the inside of the church, each one being unique and different.

And when I came home, I decided to make a very, very long line, stitching all those different knotted patterns together, and every one of them felt like a chapter in my life.

I just realized that these abstract patterns represented different moments to me.

Holding my children's hands, the hand clasping curls of my daughter's hair.

The way that, when we were younger, the phone cord would be stretched around and outside the room and into the closet so we could have privacy.

And those motifs were wrapped into this long, long, 150ft drawing.

And I think this restitching kind of activity that I've been doing from multiple sources to reconstruct something that feels like an evolving history, that is both personal and cultural and political and social is what I'm after.

That sparked a kind of imagination for how do we take up the bits and fragments of the world and extrapolate from that a vision of a place we can inhabit.

And the patterns are not these abstract, decorative, meaningless motifs.

They're evidence of our life experiences.

My father and mother divorced when I was five.

All communication with our father was cut off.

Our last names changed.

Photos disappeared from albums.

And after he left, I stopped speaking and reading at school for some time.

It's amazing what the significance of that both early loss and then a kind of continued disappointment does.

Because you look elsewhere for happiness, reassurance, love, possible futures.

I fell in love with what art did for me in terms of this possibility of a future to envision.

And then, when I discovered ceramics very early on as a 12 year old or something, I literally, it literally had a physical impact on me.

It changed my demeanor.

I literally had a visceral, kind of passionate response to it.

I couldn't ignore it.

I had this amazing conversation with an artist at one point in New York City.

We just met on the street and were introduced, and then later we're at an opening together.

He said, what is the central issue behind your work?

That was the first question.

And without ever having been asked that question before, I immediately said, intimacy.

What's wrapped up in intimacy is always distance.

Permission to touch and permission to get closer.

I'm so interested in how we become aware of that distance between where we are and where we want to be, and I feel like as an artist, I'm reconciling all these desires and histories.

So trying to reconcile your personal cultural histories with the present, trying to make sense of all that we inherit and what we want to bring forward.

The world does a lot to sort of encourage you to build a kind of armor, to develop the thicker and thicker, thicker skin.

And I think what art has allowed me to do is it breaks open your heart.

Being able to come into this studio to be alone and to let my heart break in the making of something while thinking deeply about the people I care about.

Oh my God, it's like life saving, right?

It's the most important thing I do.

I had my retrospective at the MCA in Denver in 2016.

It opened in October, and within two weeks we went through the 2016 election.

And I think there was no time that became more apparent to me at how silenced I felt then that that election and the silencing was so profound.

It's so real.

It's not theoretical.

And yet what I recognized much earlier in my career is the way in which ornament plays the role of this sort of silent backdrop to our lives, and it's a voice of its own telling us deeply, telling us very clearly all sorts of narratives and stories that exist in the past, in the future, in the present.

And that relationship between silence and ornament is a role that women have played throughout the centuries.

Quiet, decorative.

And how do you claim a voice when the forces around you are trying to keep you silent?

I also teach full time.

My most important role as a professor is to grant permission.

That's the number one thing.

And even as a parent, number one thing you can do for others is say, go for it, do it.

My biggest challenge as an artist is the amount of time that I need to work in order to realize the projects.

How do I make time a friend and not an enemy?

I have such an appetite for labor.

I have such an appetite for wanting to do very rich, intricate, large scale or complicated pieces.

And so they take so much time and I'm in a hurry to do lots of things.

I grew up in Milford, Connecticut, right on Long Island Sound.

It was the biggest playground ever.

What has stayed with me over all the years and is such a thread through all my work, is anticipation of discovering something.

No matter when you went to the beach, night or day, low tide or high tide, there was going to be something that you weren't expecting to find.

A squid that had washed up on the beach, or horseshoe crabs.

Mating season was crazy.

They were all over everything.

Another big part of growing up was having a fishing boat, and of course it needed a lot of upkeep.

I just learned how to work all day long and loved it.

When I was in high school and college, I played a lot of sports and that was the thing I did.

I loved running.

I loved being on a team and I played a lot of field sports.

I loved the feeling of it because you felt like you were kind of gliding and flying through space, and then it also gave me the confidence that I could really do whatever I wanted in a way, because there was this competitive thing that grew in me, and I'll never forget it.

Every year, elementary school, I was the fastest girl against the fastest boy.

And hell, I was not going to let them beat me.

That feeling of having this kind of powerful thing in my body really set the tone.

It gave me an inner confidence that has carried throughout my life.

In 1984, I was hoping to go to the Olympics for field hockey in LA, and unfortunately, at the last tryout I hurt my knee for the second time.

And not only did I not make the Olympics, but the doctors said, you're going to keep hurting this knee.

They said, you're going to walk with a limp your whole life.

And so I stopped playing and I was bereft.

I just needed something to get me tired.

I had a ton of energy.

And I found my way to ceramics when I was an undergrad.

And then slowly, my sort of trajectory of being in the medical field faded into this idea of becoming an artist, which I really didn't know exactly what that meant, but I just kind of knew I was addicted to making things, and I wanted to keep learning from people.

I'm always looking for an oddity.

I'm really attracted to burls on trees, primarily because when a burl happens on a tree, it means that something has disrupted the growth on the outside of the tree, whether it's bug infestation or it's been glanced by lightning and the tree basically heals itself.

It's been turned into this strange beauty that I really am drawn to all the time.

I love those places in nature where there's been sort of a gap.

When I was an undergrad studying developmental biology and psychology, what really impressed upon me is the speed in which the body collects stimulus, sorts it out, and then has a response.

The place that that happens is in the nervous system.

Without thinking or anything, you instinctually figure out whether something is safe for you to be near or it's unsafe for you to be near.

And so with all of my work, I'm really hoping I can activate that system in people, which of course is the most base biological system in all of us that keeps us safe and lets us live.

You have to decide whether it's abject or beautiful.

And what's your definition of beauty or what's your definition of something is abject.

I hope this doesn't make you a little squeamish, but one morning I came in and one of my glaze buckets, I left it open, and there were two mice that had actually gone into the glaze bucket and sadly drowned.

The mice are attracted to the smell of the minerals that are in the glazes, and I thought, these mice are full of glaze.

Time for a little burial for them.

So I made their own little petri dish and popped them in and put a bunch of other glaze around them.

And when, you know, they fired, there is this perfect, perfect tiny, tiny skeleton.

And again, that act of discovering that the bones in the tail are so fine and delicate and then just so beautifully matched up how they go together.

It's incredible.

When you look at it.

It's very abstract.

It looks like it could be some kind of fossil.

And then when people realize that it's a mouse, they back up a little bit and all the kids get closer, the adults back up and the kids get closer and they're like, whoa, that's amazing.

And the adults, they're not quite sure if they should like it or not.

And if I'm like a mice killer, which, by the way, I am, and... living in the mountains, you have to learn how to deal with all the critters that come in in the fall.

A lot of what I use are just detritus from life, things you're going to normally throw out or recycle.

I just put up this piece made with something called wattles, which are erosion barriers you see on the side of the roads that are like tubes of hay or different material that are staked in to hold the ground where there's been newly contoured surfaces.

These two little boys were looking at this piece, and there are all these wild tendrils going all over the place.

And these boys said, oh, yeah, this looks like my grandma's hair in the morning.

And then in the same breath, this woman, 65 plus year old woman, next to them, said, oh, I hate this thing.

This reminds me of a parasite I got in South America.

And so there's that beautiful array of how the work can be interpreted.

I love it when you see something odd, you show it to somebody in sort of an abstract format and then let words sort of, you know, burble up and proliferate and, and you get all these strange combinations of how people think about things.

So much of what I make has reference to the ocean, but really what I'm trying to do is create that sense of anticipation and discovery.

First thing, the reason I make it is for me.

You have to really make your work for yourself.

That's the start.

I make it because I'm curious to see what's going to happen.

I set myself up in my studio in a way that I'm not really sure what's going to unfold with time.

I set myself up so I disrupt the knowing.

I try to make things that are pointedly obscure.

I abstract forms to a point where you can't quite name them.

And by not being able to name them, you have to then become like a kid again and investigate these things that I make with, sort of, a kid's eyes and be very attentive.

Some of my pieces take years to make, two, three, four years.

I always get a question how do you stay interested for that long?

And it's my setting up my sort of process of not really knowing the end result that spurs me on.

And I feel like time in our culture is very different.

It's been speeding up.

We are changing all the time.

We do not know what's around the corner.

You know, we really don't know what minute to minute is going to happen.

How you react to adversity and challenges is what makes you, and I think it makes all of us.

I've always had this ingrained in me, that whatever happens, something good is going to come out of it.

And it's something that you probably would not have thought of unless something else was shut off.

I grew up in Buenos Aires, in Argentina.

You know, in my memories I have a lot of colors.

I think that's how my memory takes me to different places.

You know, color is one of the big things that made me want to be an artist.

It was on one hand, the gesture and the thinking about what I had in front and how I could make, you know, the drawing, that it's so immediate.

But then color, color is emotional.

I'm always fishing for colors and my memory is full of colors.

The seasons and times in my life, they go together with colors.

I see them in colors.

I'm always intrigued by nature.

I feel nourished by nature.

I'm intrigued by plants.

Do they feel?

What is their cosmology?

How does a flower perceive the world?

I see how I'm trying to figure out what's the world of the tree.

You know, I might get older, but that questioning always feels new.

Thinking about the tree that, you know, we move, we go here or there, we go on a plane.

A tree begins to grow and stays in that place and stays in that place.

The knowledge of that tree about all of its surrounding.

How do you get a sliver of that as a human?

My question comes more as an opportunity, an invitation of all these other beings for us to be more open, a little bit of imagining how it is for a completely different being to be in the world.

I think if we are aware of that, it can save us from a lot of trouble.

My work is a lot about the feminine and the power of the feminine, and in choosing my materials.

I have been working a lot with tulle.

Tulle is very soft, it's translucent.

People think about ballerinas and princesses and brides and this fantasy world that I question as a woman.

The fairy tales and those stories, they present an archetype of a woman who is innocent, that leans on someone else that is probably stronger and invitation in that archetype for the woman is to stay naive, to be very quiet.

And I rebel against that.

I used tulle, enormous amounts of it to talk about power.

It can be soft, but soft does not mean weak.

It can be soft and very strong.

We don't have to be harsh.

You don't have to be aggressive.

But you can be super present and very certain.

About the passage of time, on one hand, I feel an urgency.

I am feeling the time personally of me in my body, but also in the world and where we are.

I don't have now the energy I had 20 years ago, but I have a clarity that I didn't have then.

The big challenge for me is how to make life simpler.

You know, sometimes I'm on the freeway and you see the traffic and the cars and I think, oh my God, in a hundred years, probably none of us will be alive here.

And thinking about those, it's very informative because it organizes my priorities.

At this moment in my life, I have different levels of care.

I care where my community is going.

I care about my team working here and how to make it sustainable.

I care about my children and their futures.

I care about how I make work, not only what I make, but how I make it.

I want to be aware, in all the moments of my life, of who I am and how to be aligned.

And, you know, my mind and my body and my heart and my soul.

And I find that that this moment as an artist and as a person, my biggest responsibility is to be true to my heart in everything I do and make.

When I'm working through a project, many times I don't know exactly what is this work, I mean, I have a sense, but I don't have all the answers about the work.

It's important for me to get out of the head and begin to make things.

And I have learned to trust the intuition of needing to make it.

I don't have all the information about the reach of it, or how worth it is to keep doing it or not.

If my heart is in it, if I'm, you know, there are... There is that little thing happening in your heart when you are making the work.

Then I go.

I keep going.

And the answers will come later.

I trust.

And that's what I do.

I trust that this is the work I have to do.

The work holds me and helps me figure out the world.

And then when the work comes altogether, there is a moment of surprise.

There is a moment of newness for me, of something that, wow.

And I love that moment.

I want, with my work, to talk about the coming together, the thousands and thousands of small gestures of kindness that we exchange that are not loud, but we have minute by minute choice of how to be in the world.

These invisible gestures that really is what makes our lives.

Who do we want to be?

I've spent my whole life making art because I cannot wait to see what happens.

I love the serendipity and chance of making something that intrigues me, and I hope that curiosity and wonder is passed on to the people who experience my work.

I don't think I'm trying to find any particular answer to any particular question, because if I found an answer, that might mean it's done.

I'm in love with the idea of anticipation.

What is possible?

What is lurking under consciousness?

What might unfurl given a big wide fence to play in and hop over?

I think a sense of active discovery is something that brings every inventive person joy.

When you find an expressive tool that you love and that suits your creative capacity in a deep way, it's a true gift.

I guess I don't think any artistic practice can be deeply true to one's aspirations If it doesn't come from a loving motivation and some kind of embrace of the world, with all its contradictions.

I have always loved many art forms... photography, drawing, sculpture, sewing, dance, music.

I am a person who puts tremendous faith in the process.

I never wanted to limit myself and my creativity into one category.

Since I am interested in transformation, my works are constantly changing.

Work like this is both terrifying and at the same time freeing.

In a way, I am attempting to create a new reality by bringing to light the divine beauty of the world.

You know, if I think of an underlying question when making work, I'm not really answering anything.

I'm more like searching, discovering.

It's a revelation that happens right there in front and beyond me.

There is a mystery that keeps growing, not shrinking, but growing and becoming more and more interesting as I am making art.

And I like that back and forth.

For me, the process of making art is one of questioning, forming structures that propose solutions not necessarily practical ones, but useful, like poetry and its ability to open hearts and minds.

I think art confronts loss and desire, offering a space to mourn, heal and find beauty amid pain.

And while creating is deeply personal, it relies on community for support and dialog.

As vulnerability and endurance really shape the work.

At its best, art addresses what culture lacks offering hope, truth, and a space to imagine a better world.

♪ ♪ When I was born, ♪ ♪ I found my hand ♪ ♪ could capture many things: ♪ ♪ mystery, nature, time and space, ♪ ♪ kindly acts I spread across the land.

♪ ♪ ah ah ♪ ♪ I'm like a tree, ♪ ♪ that stayed in place and stayed in place, ♪ ♪ my rings, my circles 'round the sun, ♪ ♪ the good and bad are part of me.

♪ ♪ The world is etched upon my face.

♪ ♪ ah ah ♪ ♪ ah ah ♪