I became a printmaker because I was enchanted by the beauty of the etched line, of rich, velvety blacks, the deliciousness of eaten away textures, lace, ribbon, hessian, foil, feather, netting; layer upon layer, process within process, the final image always surprising, always more than envisaged.
I love the magic of the etching process, the way a mordant will eat away at a metal plate transforming the drawn line into something richer, more textural, more expressive; a wayward, crumbling evocation.
I feel like an alchemist as first I fill the eaten away marks with ink, then roll plate and paper through a press where a pressure of two tons will force damp fibres into the holes to emboss the image onto the paper.
What do I do with all this magic? I tell stories. I make up new ones and circle old favourites, discovering new perspectives, alternate endings, musing upon what ifs.