I slam my ball of pre-art to the center of the wheel.  Wheel is now at high-speed, my not yet piece of art looks like its belly dancing to the monotone buzz of the wheel.  I take in a deep breath, place my hands on the belly dancer and everything slowly turns black.  My eyes are closed and I am giving all I have of me into my hands. 

Subliminal counts of eight are what contribute to my large scaled fabricated forms.  As a dancer, counting to eight and incorporating it to movement has been and still is a big part of me.  I find myself counting to eight in everything I do: washing dishes, walking my dog, people watching, getting dressed, and undressed.  I’m counting to the sounds that I hear of cars driving by, the loud music protruding from some, the rattling of engines, the squeaking of brakes.

Movement is essential to my work. Not only does it have to collaborate with my counting, but it conveys a message.  When a woman walks so erect that it looks like an invisible string is pulling up to the sky, her hips and arms sway. She’s confident and is in control.   This swagger guys do down the sidewalk doing this neck, shoulder, hip motion; they are cool but a little cocky.  I’m dancing low, close to the ground with scrunched shoulders, heavy, I’m in distress, and life is weighing me down.  I need motion, be it subtle or obvious. I need the line that composes a posture or position, or the plié, to express me, and my movement through my work.