I could say that I am “here” and refer to an infinite locale. I carry with me the particles of each place I go, permanently engraved into my matrix, and yet I claim to be the cartographer. I create in order to contemplate a vast uncertainty of boundaries.
In You Are Here, a vast array of horizon lines were merged together and exposed in the sun with cyanotype on silk. In doing so, I reassembled a collective neighborhood of landscapes and brought them into a shared place, with equal presence.
I spent many hours of my childhood staring out of the car window as one landscape melded into another, spinning globes under my fingers, reading the names of countries, and listening to family members’ stories, which inevitably revolved around particular moments anchored to where they were briefly living at the time. The compartmentalization of both thought and place fuels many of my artistic endeavors.
We see a place. We name it. We see the same place, only bigger, and we name it something else. We estrange the one into two, and pretend they never met. Then, we use them as waiting areas and spaces to cross. And, thus, I am “here” and you are “there”, but we’re always in between.