I make the thing I want to see. I want it to be bigger than myself. My work is allegorical in that I attempt to make meaning out of information that is apparently random. Geometry is a kind of grammar; process is a kind of syntax. Logic is pervasive—it fails and it persists. The language breaks down into isolated moments. Meaning rises in the fragments of touch, as expressions of desire, loss, joy, or solace divorced from their broader circumstances. In this sense, these moments are expressions of grace, existing apart from the larger narrative, wholly for their own sake. Still, from a distance the work appears whole. There is a moral to the story flickering on the horizon. I can feel it in the shift of scale, the difference between the tiny threads two inches from my face and the breadth of the forms that stretch just beyond my reach. I want to make tangible the inadequacies of logic. I want to see the infinite space between the closest of things.