for David Hutto Up there’s the interstate, peeping through trees. Down here among hollows, satellite dishes, a man on his deck guzzles beer, wishes he were driving...
We can’t hide here—the only two white women in the front row of the Crossroads Theater in south L.A., where Isaac, the black man, stands...
For most of us, how we assign color to an object depends on what we think the object “is” and what color it is supposed to be -- grass is green. What I now see, because I stared at it long and hard enough, was that the degree and tone of light changes the color we perceive it to be
It was a small dark body, like a mouse. Unemployed, it still drove the car, pushing the TV out the passenger-side door, yellow chyme and bile...
Glass is an untamable medium, continually floating in the lingering discourse between Art and Craft. I try to control and manipulate glass dust into precise patterns, but once the work is loaded into the kiln, heat and physics take over