I need to say up front that, yes, I have been seriously moved by and influenced by two artists: Joseph Cornell and Louise Nevelson. Cornell’s boxes are things of beauty and mystery, and he was clearly (among other things) a symbolist. I veer from the road Cornell paved in that I am less rooted in ephemera, certainly a complete stranger to the danseurs and French literature that captivated his attention. My work is informed by science, in particular quantum mechanics and the theory of relativity, and the quest for a theory of everything.

As a child I wanted to be an astronomer. I spent every night I could outside, with my telescope and star book, gazing skyward. I didn’t know Cornell had done a habitat series until after I had made a couple, and that seemed like a nice synchronicity. (I live in fear of my work being judged strictly as a ripoff of Cornell.) I chose the rabbit to live in the habitats because of its rich iconography and lore. The Chinese see a hare in the moon rather than a man. Aside from the obvious associations with fertility, rabbits are present everywhere, usually as benevolent creatures or guides. For me, they represent the ability to be creative; the habitats are a way of safeguarding that.

Much later in life, I became obsessed with birds. In fact, it was my obsession with birds that led me to Cornell’s work. I collect prints made by bird artists and old ornithology textbooks. How birds figure into my work I have yet to discover, but they seem to represent a limitless capacity for discovery. One can never be a perfect birder. No one has ever seen every species of bird. They seem to inhabit the planet like the stars inhabit the sky: elusive, mysterious, untouchable.

On to Nevelson: I am also obsessed with wood. My father taught me to love wood. A man of infinite patience, he spent most of his nights in our garage working on some project or another. Rebuilding something, refinishing something, or just puttering. He allowed me to hang out with him. The first time I saw one of Nevelson’s walls it took my breath away, and still does.

What’s interesting to me as an adult is that until I started making art seriously, I had no patience. I hated waiting for glue to dry and if I screwed something up I was likely to swear and throw it out. But suddenly I realized I had that same infinite patience of my father’s. I wait hours and overnight for paint and glue to dry. I take my time. I do things carefully and I use the correct tools, and if I screw something up, I go back and fix it or start over. Sometimes the screw up leads me in a new direction – I have to figure out a way around the mistake – incorporate or disguise the mistake. The pieces are like puzzles to me. I’m never quite sure what’s going to happen. Most of the time what I had anticipated does not become the final product. It’s a progression, and the product illustrates that process.

Other influences are the Thorne Miniature Rooms at the Art Institute. Dozens of tiny environments, all perfectly executed. Complete worlds with no people in them. What appeals to me about them is their attention to every detail and their power to completely evoke a time and place. I like doing that on a subliminal level – my work is in no way representational.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been picking things up off of the street and keeping them, or buying weird things in resale stores because I liked how they looked. Suddenly, I had a use for all of this stuff. It becomes art, which is as much about the exploration of the beauty in every day objects as anything else. I want my life to be about aesthetics. I don’t want to make confrontational art. I want to make art that celebrates the loveliness of the ordinary.

Always, I am stunned at the brevity of life. I can’t imagine living it any other way. I have been a collector of art for many years now and would not want to live a life in which I was not surrounded by someone else’s interpretation of beauty.

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