Connections, not only with people but with things, this facinates me. The gathering of objects, of materials and people, indirectly. A small plastic pig from China, painted by a person whom I will never meet. Packed, boxed, shipped over seas, distributed, sold at a corner store, bought by a man. A frame from a thrift store, a wooden block found on the street, painted, glued, assambled. The piece is now ready, photographed, cropped, shown to the world. This is not the work of a man, this is the work of many, of all. The connections are there, when we bother to look.
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| Home |
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| Tomorrow, tomorrow... |
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| City to city |
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| The slow century |
