Art is born by secrets, hidden in the fold of a dress, an afterthought of silence.   When we know, but cannot soften the blow, we make art and find glory in those perfect moments. Our hands and mind become the same and are exulted of this Earth.  Yet, there is always a missing.  A hole left to fill.  A darkness upon our brow as we betray what we call life and death.

Wrapping our arms around our bodies, in complete awareness, the secret unfolds across an ocean of pain and we circle down inside ourselves.  We turn others away.  Sleep is often a release, but it is in the work, the shaping of our personal hell, that we raise the walls and lock the gates.  Sometimes it is frantic; hopeless in the way of sending Morse code as the ship sinks and heavy eyes take us down.  Other times we…