a delicate arrangement of situations

I was in Art school for the last four years. During that time stuff starting uncoiling out of me through my hands. Forms of wool or rubber, configurations of fabric and glue glue glue. tiny stitches with hair as thread. spindly, squirmy, warm, grubby things. These things, during the process of making, and their result, was always intimate, sexual, childlike, and fragile. needing protection, like tiny babies. I always thought of my sculptures as babies. helpless little blubs. When I finished with these years of education, i stayed in the town where i went to school. That is Gainesville, Florida. I kept making these objects, and found when i went without doing so, I felt very stuffed up. I lived with a boy. Love took over and now we have our own little baby growing inside of me. This baby is art. He is my sculpture. What about the other art? It feels dead in comparison. It needs to be revived, I don't want to lose it. This blog will be the story of me, baby, and art.

peepers

spermy i made when i was pregnant but didn't know it

doodad

wormcage

cerclage chair. I didn't need a cerclage. I don't know why i was so worried.

grub in a crib

stitchy rubberies in a high chair

dancing under a bed