As a self-taught graphic designer, I became fascinated with typography, design and paper in my early twenties. But… for as long as I can remember, I’ve been haunted by a desire to be a “real” artist.

Growing up on the coast of Maine and sailing to islands with my family, I carried home in my pockets the stones, sea glass, bits of driftwood and shells I collected. I’m a gatherer by nature: of buttons, fabric remnants, ribbons, twine, feathers, and old metal objects. The gardener in me saves seeds, vines, leaves, cones and pods. And above all, I’m obsessed with handmade papers. I don’t collect things; they collect me.

Like many artistic souls, I’ve struggled to own the label “artist.”  I’ve downplayed my creative expressions as unremarkable, whether a handmade card I send someone or an arrangement of stones on a mantle. But growing older I’ve noticed that art can be found in the way we are: I breathe artfully. There is something sacred in an arrangement of objects, the presentation of a salad or the pace of a walk.

More recently, I’ve allowed myself to become lost in my studio with the myriad objects I collect, and something wonderful has happened. When I listen, I understand that these items are in a conversation. When I become utterly lost in this conversation, I find my voice, and it’s often a prayer.