My art now reaches all the way back to how I got into art as a child: by rolling a ball of clay between my hands.
There was no self-directed thinking then, and there is none now. Just as with the ball of clay, I wait for the material to take a shape and if on its own. There are sacred intervals when something wells up from deep subconscious reservoir. Everything is available there: all childhood experience, the unconscious feelings of current moment, even information from beyond this lifetime.
The essence of the moment hides and reveals itself over and over as I make hundreds of repeated hand-movements, stroke after stroke, playing into the material from all directions.
I work endlessly, while the form, the contour, begins to feel right to my hands and to my eyes
There is a sense of freedom from conscious deliberation. I finish, not by adding any decoration, but paring down to the essential form, whether I am shaping rigid foam, gypsum cement, or porcelain clay, until I find the right balance, and everything arrives at last in its fit and settled place.