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.
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object of memory 