When I am creating visual pieces, whether I am painting or printing, I feel a strong desire to reach some place — maybe I can call it "home" — where I am allowed to feel shamelessly nostalgic. By "nostalgic," I do not mean sentimental. This home is a place where an accumulation of different memories is stored. I try to reach over to that place. The memories are shapeless, wordless and blurry. They belong to the universe: they are millions of years old. All kinds of nostalgia are accumulated there, and are free to be shamelessly beautiful, like constellations in a moonless night on a remote island.

I have always admired transparency, translucency, and luminosity in works of art, whether they are on canvas or on paper.

Some of my memories, both visual and emotional, involve texture, light, air, and space. These memories are from my childhood, and they are infused with delight and sadness. I remember shapes of mountains against an orange sky, clouds, streams, shapes of ice clinging to yellow weeds, the color of snow, and the warmth of my mother's shawl as I watched heat lightening in the distance. They are treasures in my storehouse of sensory indexes.

I paint, draw, make prints, make artists’ books, design buildings....