I like toys. No not that kind, well yes that kind but that's another story. I like playful toys. Bobble-heads seem to dominate as well as artifacts. a ruby slipper, a coffee cup key-chain, a detailed model of an air stream trailer, a surprisingly cheerful fake bush planted like a topiary, my old dog's collar and tag, paintbrushes, a children's sized tiara with a blinking star. a pair of hand blown cocktail stir sticks. the Buddha over here to the left, I can't decide if his eyes are closed in contemplation or I've caught him in sculpture at mind head swing, 'oh no no no, what have you done?' It has been suggested that perhaps my method of surrounding myself with random objects of whimsy is an external projection of how my mind works, little snippets here and there, placed out on a working surface always trying to consider how I can bring them all together somehow. Perhaps the toys help me grounded in my history and hint at my hopes for what I can still accomplish or explore in myself or with the help of another. It surrounds me with things that are comfortable and real, despite their origins. Many of my favorite items remind me of a very specific moment. I have a stone figure - a Peruvian fertility goddess. it was given to me in love by someone for whom I didn't love. or at least the way he wanted me to. Having always been the googly-eyed boy who fell in love on the first kiss, that had been new territory to tell someone that I didn't love them the way they wanted me to. There was a time where I really hoped I did, but I did not. Love and history are strange that way - full of moments of triumph, of failure, of neither.