There was a time when I used to think that the only way I could ever tell a story was with words. It’s the only way I knew how, if at all. I didn’t see myself drawing them, telling them with scraps of paper and bits of cloth.
But here’s one – it’s a set of two pieces, commissioned for the Tedder family. It’s about Angelina and Matthew, their three young children, and their yellow-door house. It’s also about the song they first danced to, the cats they loved, the garden they grew, and the years that grew in between.
On one hand, there’s my fiction: stories that I make up about people who don’t exist. And then, there are these – stories that I don’t make up. But for both, I start out like a blind man feeling a new face.