It begins with fabric -- how it feels against your skin, how it absorbs and reflects light, how it resonates throughout our cultural history. When you run your hand across one of my art quilts, there's the soft, warm feel of the woven cotton fibers, but there's also the stiff, wrinkly texture of the quilting stitches. It's a tactile medium, one with a long, rich tradition behind it. For hundreds, if not thousands, of years, we've kept ourselves warm by draping sewn-together layers of fabric over our shivering bodies. And for perhaps almost that long, we've applied decorative motifs and patterning systems to the surface of the fabric to keep our spirits warm.

I love that connection to the past.

My quilts are designed as works of art. They're meant to be hung on a wall, pored over, reflected upon. As a geometric abstractionist, I use line and color to delineate shapes and space. Sometimes, there's a sense of landscape in my work, but only in a very abstract way. Most of the time, I'm pursuing some kind of patterning idea, repeating elements while varying them slightly to create large, complex compositions. As a structuring device, I like to use algorithm-like operations that send sets of fabrics past one another, forming patterns that owe something to both choice and chance.

Some of the patterns I work with hark back to traditional quilting, with its long history of deriving complex designs from simple shapes. But most of my patterns have their roots in modern art and design, from Japanese woodcuts and Bauhaus weavings to Op Art and the Pattern and Decoration Movement. I've been influenced by the century-long tradition of modern abstract art, from Piet Mondrian to Ellsworth Kelly to Bridget Riley and beyond. I've also been influenced by the modern world around me: Slinkys and Spirographs, circuit boards and bit maps. The goal is to go beyond these influences, to make something that has an immediate wallop and yet bears further scrutiny.