Drawn to cast-off, left-behind possessions of the dead, I rattle around in the attics of strangers. I take naps in the summer homes of memory and history; braid moonbeams into digestible sleep; daydream. I look for a sanctuary space, and finding none create my own. Bringing people and places [back] to life in what ways I can is a visceral response to what’s gone or never was. I build bridges across time, seeking some reassurance —meaning—  to counter the tenuousness of every human connection.


My dreams are bound with waxed sail thread and resin; my palette comprises the hues of a storm-bruised fragility, a screaming muteness, a fierce facing of the void— the tertiary colors of secrets and mystery, but also of optimism. The images are projections only— imprecise castings of traces discovered in the dust.


contact: liz [at] electrofork [dot] com