the a list

This is another addition to a series of artist books I’ve been creating over the past several years. It features a collection of untitled images and photographs that come together as a unified whole. I find satisfaction in this collection, as it represents the result of years spent taking photos, modifying them, setting them aside, and rediscovering them through the power of computer search algorithms. Recently, much of my effort has been focused on this rediscovery process—searching through thousands of photos and images I've accumulated over the last 20+ years to uncover emotional and visual connections. I hope you enjoy the book. Please let me know what you think.

  No Home Where do I put this dust; without a mantle  and the yellow paste of nicotine to hold it fast? Walls and windows cling to me, Desperately; Like a name to a place or a face Or like my love is stuck to you. The brown bristly welcome mat tells me The universe is not a home.  As do the locks, the lamps,  and the chimneys. My coffee stains and I Would have no place to leave our mark. Words would make no sense. The dog would just go anywhere. What a stupid thing  to think the universe is anything but a cold dark other. What else could it be? There are no floors and no ceilings. Breakfast and the cycles of love and hate Are left, space less. As if God had nothing to say And the trash had nowhere to go. The preachers that say,  “the moss on the house won’t need washing”  They lie. It was cholera that built these walls, not love, And I won’t give them up. Published in Ink In Thirds June 2019

My poem "Rock" has been accepted at MORIA Literary Magazine. You'll find the issue here   on May 6th.

Sunday, July 2nd, 2023 I'm in between jobs and getting myself to museums. This summer has been rainy.  The grass (and the bittersweet) is growing. I went to the Harvard Museums - which are now free to the public - and found my favorite space there.   On the 5th floor there is a sitting area called the lightbox gallery.  Its generally quiet - there are gallery books for reading and a circle of comfy chairs.   Looking up through the glass ceilings, the rain rolling down the panes captured the mood of the space and the day perfectly.  

  A small little book/graphics project I finished up in early May 2022.  

  In case you were wondering

Forty-eight miles per second every million lightyears My memory and I walked our childhood backyard. Often enough, we’ve looked over its green clover  with empty sidelong glances. Sometimes we’d climb the great pine long fallen,  or admire the flowers of sharon and irises whose dust was swept down river in summers, until the swamp took over. This time we set feet firmly, pocketed hands and lifted chin. Meditating in the space between my father and us. Leaving the hydrangeas and nightshade behind, the universe – on the wave of a singularity – expanded, but this sloping pitch to the river somehow looks smaller. It must be true that only the spaces between are growing. Published in Levee Magazine November 2018

How it's made. walk around, a lot. see things, stick them in your pocket, or take a picture. store them in boxes. organize the boxes. throw out some of the things. use others. combine them with other things. make variations. go back to the first impression.  someone else picks the 5th one. puts it in a magazine .  you take it from here.