A writer once told me they threw away all their old journals. She didn't need them around to know what they said, she lived it. Who do I make work for? The answer should be that I make work for myself. I have tried to tap into the kind of art that people want to live with in their homes. I don't think this has anywhere but to the point of where I know less what my "one" voice is. That is if we have only "one true voice." Being physically crowded by art holds powerful energy from the past and suggests a non urgency to re invent or grow. Imagine hanging only pictures from your glory days in high school, never shedding those old nicknames or growing personally. Being surrounded by old art for me inhibits new creations from the feeling of resourcefulness. You wouldn't buy a gallon of milk if you have two already in the fridge. It is hard to feel free to create when the doubtful emergence of old work collecting dust taunts you.