I have an old beige envelope. It is latched with an aluminum clasp and wedged between several books. The metal joint can barely be used for fear of its own end and the waxy finish of the paper has dissipated over the years. The envelope sits upon my mantle, nearly bursting with bits of paper.
Since I can remember, I have collected letters: those others have left me and the ones I myself have written but never sent. Throughout my life they have only grown in quantity - fighting the envelope’s clasp. I am fascinated by these slips of paper and their physicality. They symbolize gifts, offerings, atonements, objects, summonings, documentations, remembrances, singularities, and intimacies. They are constructed out of time, out of vulnerability, and out of touch. There is a balance between their apparent physicality and simultaneous intangibility.
When I paint, I become ensnared in these objects. In my obsessive focus, hands and feet transform into symbols and storytellers. In “Linger” [or in my most recent series of painting] I navigate what it is to hold a letter in its implied form, confront the longing that is waiting for a letter that will never arrive, and accept its weight without the requirement of returning it, but rather embrace it as a remnant of time. Both hands and feet become symbols and storytellers, narrating life with, after, and before the letters. This investigation of the “letter” invites viewers to become witness to the intimate moment depicted before them.