My earliest memory is running between the rows of tomato plants in my grandfather’s garden. The plants were taller than me and the garden seemed never-ending; fleshy green leaves extended in every direction, their shadows cast on the ground below my feet. This memory becomes more vivid in time, while others fade or vanish completely. There is a physical absence now where the garden once was. When I am making my work, I am present in the memory – running between the rows in the garden – again. It starts with noticing. Noticing quietly fading shadows. Noticing the crawling growth and somehow serene decay of flora. Noticing leaves cast away from a tree, no longer grounded. I notice, and record. When I record, whether in drawing or in print, I create a memory of a particular place at a particular instant in time. My work gives permanence to an ephemeral moment in the face of its inherent impermanence. It allows the essence of that moment to exist in the present again as memory, despite the reality of its absence.