As processing is a small stepped elephant, legs tied into spreading ribbons, as this artwork is a staccato mingle, more shapes than letters, a fiddler's movement into the screen. Are there many fiddlers left?

There are objects. Of course there are objects. And between what we purchase and steal and wind into our pockets, your pockets, are spaces, are architects and memorials. 1950s modernism and the prairie, all snow and driving into towns, past towns, building and barking grasslands. You parents are paint markers and dry erase boards, are short library pencils and precisely taped maps.  

The few sentences above, or north or topside, are not what this work is about. I do not know what this work is about. You are the only one who does. And with you being the author, the writer and explorer, it is you who is responsible. All passwords and messages, such advices marked and marking, taught and lined ropes. Spend time looking behind yourself, as the rock face isn't as sudden as your explanation suggests. And I am not nearly as clever.

Enter Between Treacherous Objects