I spend hours with pieces cradled in my lap, raking light allowing me to see curves and planes of the evolving surface. As I carve into the pot, I consider how a ladder might stand in front of a vine, how a moon might overhang a building, and what would happen if a moon was on the ground. I improvise with myself each step of the way, trying to catch myself unawares. What would happen if I did this? Did that work? Is it clumsy? Can I make it more graceful? Does it still stand evenly? These concerns are fundamental. I believe objects we live with should be made properly. The underside of a handle should be comfortable, curves should be confident. Feet should be well finished. Drawings should make sense, within the context of the pot they live on. When the pots are finished, people are often uncertain of their original material. They recognize time spent, and respond to the surface, but for comprehension, my pieces demand interaction. It is in handling that utilitarian underpinnings are understood. It is in carving that the drawing comes alive, and it is in use that the pieces come alive.