center off center

I’ve always been fascinated by printmaking. It speaks to something deep inside me—a part that feels tears well up when moved by artwork, a part that is unsettled and then understood. I love watching an artist’s process, but I’ve also found incredible peace in making my own prints, even if no one ever sees them.

Recently, I realized that creating quiets the noise in my head—and my head is very, very noisy most of the time. But I haven’t worked on anything in almost a year. At some point, I packed everything up in an act of quiet self-punishment.

Last night, walking up 7th Avenue, my head throbbed, overwhelmed. I looked down and focused on the details of the sidewalk—gum, manholes, grime, stencils, millions of footprints, some visible, some long lost to weather and time. I stopped mid-stride, knelt as if to tie my shoe, and pressed my mittened hand against the cement.

Mark-making is evidence of life. It captures moments—the mysterious and the obvious—and holds them out to the world. I see you. I see what you left behind. Here is my rendition of what once was, now new.

I stood slowly, the lights of the Empire State Building illuminating the sky, and realized my thoughts had settled. The noise had given way to shapes and sketches. The muted drip of soaked paper. The sound of a brayer rolling out ink. The heft of the press handle. A quiet comfort. An invitation to return to my basement, alone with my marks, both new and old.