April 2009


It's an unnerving process, creating a website of my work over the years. I had no idea how long it would take, and how other-worldly it would be. 
Old and fading slides transformed into digital eternities. Dust fragments and spots of mildew, worries of a bygone day. Doodles and sketches—those communication tools of one moment—imbued with an eerie afterlife. I scan the yellowing pages and realize that their color becomes an artistic statement, a badge of age, a marker of time. My work—so intertwined with the material world—is dematerializing with every upload.

Do I keep those old slide trays, with each plastic-framed transparency so carefully labeled and stored upright, each in its own slot? Originals in one row, duplicates in another. "This side towards screen." What about the black leather portfolio with mylar cover sheets, the artwork so carefully inserted?

It is all just residue of the work.