I am called to the sea as if I was born of that salty womb…born of tides and fins and stones…born of dark depths and shifting sands.

I make my home on an island in Puget Sound, surrounded by the sea, looking out to the sea, next to wetlands on their way to the sea.

No wonder that I crave rust. That I am drawn to nautical charts and collect beach glass and shells and wishing rocks with their white belts. No wonder that these relics make their way into my assemblages, books and collages.

In my youth, I summered at a log beach cabin, then sailed up and down the sound in a wooden sloop. Later, I tried my hand at sailboat racing, skippered a small yacht, then started a small business building canvas for boats.

I follow and am followed by the sea.

I work with my hands as sailors did, pulling linen thread through layers of pages instead of sails. I cut and tear bits of ephemera to tell stories of the sea. I resurrect old boxes and add brass screws and rivets and old hardware, imagining that I am a boat builder and hoping to conjure the sound of waves crashing and remember that call of the sea.