It’s not just your experiences but your understanding of the experiences of others. I’ve worked in the visual arts for three decades. During that time my individual artworks have been featured in books and magazines. I spent numerous years designing sheets and towels for manufacturers Cannon Mills and Williams Sonoma. I’ve partnered with Neiman Marcus on limited edition works. Worked with major rock bands on experiential pieces (and lived to tell the tale). I’ve also worked on a monumental scale, to create “living artworks” that organically interact with the natural environment around them.But the more I worked at my art, the more one theme started to fascinate me. And that theme was memory. America is a young country moving at a breakneck pace. Constantly producing new expressions of itself – and throwing yesterday’s expressions away. Sometimes this rate of production and destruction is so fast that it’s hard to remember yesterday at all. But when you walk around a market, or into an antique shop, when you find an old stack of magazines in an attic or find a poster from a bygone era revealed when a building is renovated you get a glimpse of past lives, past dreams, past hopes and past understandings. And suddenly that past becomes your contemporary. To me, that became the true art. The power to say stop. And look on artifacts of past lives not as a commodity but a network of hopes and memories. Just waiting to start to speak again – to us and to each other. For example, in antique markets you see boxes of bronzed baby shoes. Treated in this way they just feel like a commodity to be traded. But separate them and we start to feel the unique memory behind each pair. All the promise of another new life. Instead of imposing my vision on the world, I wanted to become transparent. So my patrons could hear many voices and not just one. It’s in this richness of voices that I believe the uniqueness of my art lies.