For as long as I can remember, I have been captivated by the mysteries of the organic world. As a child, even without words to describe my feelings, I was aware of nature's power and beauty. In late summer, at dusk, my mother and father would take our family driving on the small, local farm roads just outside of town. Our little Iowa county seemed saturated with a glowing purple-red sky and the musty smell of impending rain. The world became a rhythmic, subtly changing succession of pattern from my back-seat window view. I was mesmerized.

Broad fields of chartreuse, deep green, ochre and pale golden-yellow were punctuated by dark rows of rich black soil. Gray weathered farm fence meandered casually in contrast to the ordered rows of ripening tasseled corn. The vast fields and shapes of color would shift and blend in the speed of my view as the occasional white farmhouse, red barn, or blue silo would dot the horizon.

Although I no longer live in the Midwest, the memories are forever a part of me. The earlier references are counterbalanced now by the dense and enveloping lushness of rural Western North Carolina, which is now my home. The eccentric forms, rich surfaces and luscious layering of hues, manifest in all the cycles of growth and decay, influence my work formally and conceptually.

My most recent work begins with white cloth, which I initially print or dye. From this point on, I am in a state of dialogue with the fabric, giving and receiving, listening and responding as each layer of adding or subtracting color and pattern alters and transforms. When the fabric has reached a resonating level of interest, it is ready to be pieced and juxtaposed. With this repertoire of fabrics, I again listen and intuit, shift and change arrangements until a balance is achieved. Like the polyphony of music, each piece of cloth influences and interacts with each other piece contributing to the mystery and complexity of the completed composition.