Listening to the world. Listening as an attempt to see, as a desire to break through perception, to break through the image, even to break through thinking itself. A listening that also turns inward. And the open empty space of white paper. Maybe it is not even listening, but waiting. Maybe not even waiting, but remaining attentive and still. A hairline-narrow crack opens up, something begins to move - a small movement, and all we have to do is follow it. Suddenly it is there. Later it is as if we have done nothing, only given it a little time, a little space.
The means are simple: pencil, graphite powder, finely ground compressed charcoal, an eraser, paper of fixed proportions. White, black, and the nuances of gray in between. Each gesture made on the paper, every line, every smear, every fingerprint leaves a trace.
Drawings that invite the viewer to enter their space. Open spaces, unrestricted by horizons, not determined by vanishing points. A viewer can roam freely in these spaces. Rather than depicting nature or imitating it, these drawings resonate with nature - with the wind and the light, with the movements of waves, with reeds and ice, with the shooting away of a startled bird, with the hardly perceptible movements of clouds. Light seems almost papable in the absence of colour. It drapes over something like a veil, or it comes from behind, or it shines through. The world of these drawings is still and silent but full of life.
(With quotes from Ted Kooser 'The Poetry Home Repair Manual')