Human attempts to control and predict the weather are fascinating to me. Each season, we have a prepared list of names for each major storm that can come our way. We have color coded radar maps that apply hues symbolically in order to alert us to the patches of rain, wind, and force that are thought to be encountered. When the storm breaks, news reports discuss each storm as though it is a person, imbuing it with a personality as details are described. There is an attempt to identify, categorize, and understand each system, and yet we still find ourselves powerless against these sublime forces. Each storm becomes a meditation for the many things that are out of our hands but that we try so desperately to control. Although we try to assign names to our deepest fears and explain the most beautiful secrets of our world, in so many ways we come up short. 

My process begins with creating the patterns of the rain using sand and water over a glass surface and exposing this textured residue onto my silkscreens. These weather patterns are then printed onto prepared paper and become the building blocks of my storms. While the visual data is inspiring to me, so is the chaotic and constantly changing nature of my subject. The “raindrops” dictate how I cut the paper and I am forced to cut in ways that I might not expect. I enjoy relinquishing my grip over the traditionally controlled medium of printmaking, and prefer to respond to the conversation of shapes and texture as they flood my surfaces in surprising ways. As I print, cut, and stare, I allow myself to feel lost in the middle of each disturbance, rearranging pieces that no longer fit together.