The dawning of 2012 brought me to my parents’ house, an eclectic vortex of saved childhood possessions and weird emotional frequencies densely packed into a many-acred patch of wilderness falling off the eastern edge of the North American continent.
Visiting this environment never fails to bring back a flock of the old ghosts that made me into the artist I am now, as I walk past the dusty shelves of my childhood picture books haphazardly assembled into stacks and rows. Many fond moments have been spent revisiting the sense of awe and wonder these books created in me—indelible impressions that formed the foundations of my artistic sensibilities, despite the difference in my current chosen subject matter.
