Some time ago, I received a piece of junk mail from an organization for people who are blind. I opened it to find a letter written in braille, and thought it was lovely, so bought a braille typewriter to use myself. I’ve been making these pieces here and there as an exercise in working outside my normal routine: I like drawing faces, hands, hair; I like black ink; it’s satisfying to solve the problem of draped fabric and texture; to search for the details that compose an expression; however, I was beginning to feel very one-note. Enter: Braille Project, where I wanted to not draw nouns as they appear, and wanted to use a little color.
Written on these pieces are the worst things about me, the most hurtful things I’ve done, things I’ve never been honest with anyone about (sometimes not even myself). I liked the idea of the dirt-under-fingernails content of visual art being more readily accessible to a group of people who typically can’t engage with it, and the catharsis of honesty, and being exposed, as a person who has been pretty private for most of my life.