As the snow falls it is putting me in a thinking space. Much as I make fun of Marie Kondo it may not be such a bad idea in the erasing whiteness and silence of winter to sort the collected stacks and stacks of paper, to hold each image and ask in one’s own way, do you bring me joy or anxiety or curiosity and would I miss you if you were gone?
I work on paper. Lots of paper. As a calligrapher I may make one mark hundreds of times, each one on a different piece of paper. In the drifts, in the light from the eastern window, the pages seem simply to melt into the snow. Some fragments have a secret worth asking about. They go in new stacks.