are landscapes of the heart and the mind, of a time where no obvious
path was showing, no light at the end of the tunnel. To the viewer
they are both immense and intimate. They could be deserts or they
could be the Arctic, with floats of gray-blue icebergs, aurora borealis,
and a great rolling sea. You could see things in them, but they
remain equivocal, ambiguous. Somewhere a faint light is rising.
Sometimes, where sky and earth meet, a single path of white cuts
through the night, and a nest of twigs or spikes point at the clouds.
Maybe all of the landscapes are also a display of the process of
etching, an unending battle between the forces of darkness and light.