The installation emerges. I give my sketching mind an imaginary dream-set of colored pencils, with 213 colors, including a couple of blenders of different temperatures.  I turn myself loose mm-hmm on these shadows.

of course time is nothing in the imagination, and I spend seasons coloring the shadows in, unbothered.  I don’t want.  What separates me from the lady in West Virginia who spends her whole life balling string?  The presentless activity is imagination, there-dee.  I draw gangly urban scenes of the cities I have lived in, specific scenes at identifiable times of day, with obscured goings on inside the windows of cartoon buildings. I insist on using color, and I fucketh with scale, and turn the viewer participant into a Seussian Who, an insider, another kind of a creature.