I have always been consumed by the concept of time and by an overwhelming sense of urgency. As a child I collected fossils in Kansas. I would let my hands trace the patterns recording millions of years. I remember the sense of urgency dissolving as I experienced time without limit. As an astronomy student, I experienced time another way. By looking through a telescope, I could move backward in time. One would see in the present an event that happened millions of years ago. The ticking clock of the moment was of no consequence.

I looked for a life’s direction to sustain this calm. I discovered that making things — and in particular making art — was the solution. In my art I enter the world of indeterminate time as the organic development of the images becomes my essential and ongoing meditation.

Buckminster Fuller was an early inspiration. While he explored the triangles of the geodesic dome, I explored the structures of convex polygons. Inspired by D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson’s “On Growth and Form,” I began to examine scientific studies of organic growth and I discovered an expansive and the evolving set of subsequent structures in my art. My artistic efforts have emerged from this immersion in scientific imagery. The sculptural beauty I seek in my images is an effort to record these scientific studies and observations.

I now see cellular and fossil-like forms everywhere. The expression might be a fabric sculpture. It might be an oil painting in which ribbed structures are sown into the canvas before stretching. It might be works on paper; when I draw pastel nudes, the thighs, the breasts, and the torsos all break apart into geometric, refracted patterns of the expanding universe.

I have discovered that artwork itself grows organically. In creating works on paper I begin with spherical geometric line drawings. As I meditatively fill in these shapes, mosaic nudes and landscapes emerge. These become a two-dimensional version of my sculpture. They capture the same “planar net” spirit. Ultimately, the forms undulate and reinvent themselves, surprising even me, who has come to understand them so intimately.

Examining, almost as a scientist, what is seen and not seen is my ongoing effort in making art. Like a microscope, which defines what we see, the artist too defines what we see by making choices about how an image is cropped: Now there is an edge, and the definition is clear, but one wonders what is beyond? Because it can only be imagined, I say it is finally not important. The space that has been articulated by the artist or scientist is what matters. One chooses which section of the heavens to view. What power there is in this.