I am floating along on the West Branch of the Susquehanna. It is a slow, wide river and the riverbed is so close you can almost touch it from the edge of the canoe. My arm drops over the edge and I let my hand open to the cool sluice of water through my fingers. The colors are warm iron, orange, a collection of browns and sand. The dark shadow of the vessel crosses these colors quietly while transporting us from campsite to campsite.
I begin my work by recalling a body of water. It could be the deepest blue with the high bright reflections of the open sea, the emerald green of an alpine lake, the horizon line at the Gulf or the shallow bed of a lazy river.
Several things coalesce in my dreaming on water: the need to look deeply below the surface, below the skin, allowing the transparency and diffusion of the etching to obscure and reveal at the same time. This river or stretch of horizon that I am willing into being presents me with that perfect moment of a storm receding, the air clearing and the feeling that everything has become new. Take a breath it says, everything is listening.