I'm just fascinated with the world that I can see, but I'm even more fascinated with the world that I can't see.
It is not down in any map; true places never are.
I'm really obsessed with this idea that we're living in this environment where there's always magic around us that we are not perceiving.
Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world.
My older sister has entire kingdoms inside of her, and some of them are only accessible at certain seasons, in certain kinds of weather.
Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills?
My paintings always feature trails that dissolve into mysterious areas, patches of light that lead the eye around corners, pathways, open gates, etc.
There are vast realms of consciousness still undreamed of -vast ranges of experience, like humming of unseen harps, we know nothing of, within us.
