One day while I was descending the stairs from my studio, I noticed the early-winter light streaming through the antique glass window of my home. It was spectacular, and I had never seen it this way before, despite having lived in the house for sixteen years. The light I noticed that day seemed to reference something no longer there physically, yet intensely palpable in its absence.
Even the most familiar places in my home and around the rural neighborhood in which I live, so often reveal to me mysteries as clues, bridges between the past and the present, the ordinary and the remarkable. I look for them, long for them, all the while realizing they may actually be products of my imagination intermingled with recollections of the other homes, towns and cities of my past. Thus, I transform these places depicted in the images I make by projecting them forward and backward in time until they seem but artifacts of a dream through which I am a wanderer.