I make my home on an island in Puget Sound, surrounded by the sea, view of the sea, adjacent to wetlands on their way to the sea.
No wonder that I crave rust. That I am drawn to nautical charts and collect beach glass and shells and wishing rocks with their white belts. No wonder that these relics make their way into my assemblages, books and ditty bags.
In my youth, I summered at a log beach cabin, then sailed up and down the sound in a wooden sloop. Later, I tried my hand at sailboat racing, skippered a small yacht, then started a small business building canvas for boats.
I work with my hands as sailors did, pulling linen thread through layers of pages instead of sails. I resurrect old boxes and add brass screws and rivets and old hardware, imagining that I am a boat builder. I sprinkle bits of sea worn glass into cutouts on book covers hoping to conjure the sound of waves crashing and remember that call of the sea.