As my drawings develop stroke by perpetual stroke it seems to me, I am writing an unspoken history about events so deeply challenging that there are no human words to express it.  There is no written language to communicate the devious act of denying and destroying another’s humanity.  The totality of these tree drawings is screaming large, it has to be.  Each completed drawing is laid out next to another ultimately forming an awkward graph affair of a tree that has seen it all.  One drawn sheet of paper by itself reads close to a safe abstraction but as they form a whole the resulting image and it is enough to make you cry.  The drawings together seem to be of a tree in a perpetual twist of grief.  How could it not be?  Currently I have collected photographs of specific trees in the hill country of Texas, Sycamores on the Antietam Battleground in Maryland, and the abandoned pear tree that barely survived the bombing of the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan.  I’m out there looking for them knowing they will find me.

They are there among us watching and knowing.