Everyday, I walk into the studio, pace through narrow hallways and ride the winding roads; I contemplate the questions of when and where to begin as an artist. The influences of my physical and geographical locations lend themselves to creative endeavors, expressions of lessons learned. Travelling between private spaces of HOMEand back into the public places where strangers cross paths and change directions, daily routines are worked into systems of exploration and discovery while in GRADUATE SCHOOL. Returning to a place to call my own, over-stimulated from the city lights and street shadows, I aggressively release the tension built up in my body. I am surrounded by chain saws, table saws, welding equipment and assorted industrial materials with sharp edges, stacked on shelves that line the walls. Smithson wrote: “The tools of art have too long been confined to ‘the studio,’” What happens when the studio becomes the bondage of creativity, instead of a space to work through ideas in three-dimensions? What happens when the systems organized and arranged within a sculptor’s studio are disrupted? I lifted the steel frame, suspended from the ceiling by two wheels and decided to RIDE the road, kicking up dust along the routes marked on street signs. Riding the mountain ranges instead of the shorelines left my BODY craving the salty ocean waves. It is here, in these pages, that I draw upon concepts associated with the body, with its incisions and scars under an umbrella of memories that I undress before you. I explore the time I spent on rooftops of unfamiliar buildings, writing down the PAIN and tossing suitcases of contradictions down the fire escape. Strapped across my body are the layers of language and landscapes of time, in search of a safe PLACE to surrender. Today, I continue to record the rhythm and changing chords across the fret board of experiences. Following in Smithson’s footsteps and assembling a collage of texts in an effort to remind myself that there is, in fact, power in beginning what we fear, a reminder to walk beyond and later return to the space of the studio. It is here, that I am anchored to my memory of a past that often returns to surface as I sculpt my IDENTITY as an artist. This is where the lines are forged from strangers’ stories and surviving circumstances, and it is here I search for an anchor.