Her lines smolder. The line seems to be reaching, not drawn from the hand but marks from an emerging landscape with octaves of light and absence. The line traces the cracks in stone and branches like a twig. The pressure is uneven, faint, heavy, coarse or fine. Angles, trapezoids, a zigzag. Near the edge, a web of lines, a weaving, not as if it was meant for the whole, but to join two opposing directions.
The paper is scored, fractured, scarred, perforated. Stitched in short lines, not a repair but a language of needle and thread.
A transparent wash of orange, yellow, or clay glides through the image and over scars and fractures and beyond, off the page.
In one drawing, the white canyon of the page opens into a glimpse of sheer blue/green, vestige of a civilization or a map, with an archipelago. Or perhaps it’s a shard, suspended upon a thread, raw edged and in the pale wash of clay, pierced back to front with broken threads, floating. She has given us another plane, a third dimension that floats in front of us.
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