I was having dinner with a friend who asked me why I cut my paintings apart. It is a common question I receive about my work. The answer went something like this:

Running my finger around the porcelain tea bowl, I asked him, “Do you see this? It is perfect.”
I held the cup up to the light, “So thin, so smooth, it fits comfortably in the hands, it is a pleasure to drink from. And when i walk away from here I will not think of it again.”

I told him of how at University, I had begun as a pottery student in Art school. I haunted the museums around Seattle which have many collections of Asian pottery. There, I discovered ceremonial tea bowls. A tea bowl for ceremony has a rustic charm, you can almost sense the presence of the potter, see his prints in the clay, feel the rhythm of it being formed, catch fragrances of the raw earth and traces of fire and ash. All of these rush into the heart. Linger.

The smooth surface perfection of other vessels did not hold me, my eye slid off the surface too fast to register, a brief moment in the mind, then gone. My eye would return to the rough tea bowls, there was a place for me, time to explore beyond the moment. It was a stunning revelation, a small shock. I saw the similar truth in my work. Ever a perfectionist, I would polish the life right out of it.

So it began then in the early 70s, painting, cutting apart, abstracting, reassembling, leaving empty spaces for others to fill. Small imperfections slow the eye, invite.

It has been a gradual process finding the right balance; subtle not destructive. It is like listening in a conversation instead of filling up all the silences with meaningless words.

It is the Flaw that is the invitation that asks the eye to slow, the heart to open. A bridge to cross. A Welcome.