Lately I've been working on several quilts that feature ice. It strikes me as surprising that, given my compulsion to make work picturing layers of earth, I have waited this long to feature the layers I actually grew up on. I am an ice child. I walked the permafrosted treeless tundra on countless family outings. I understood the ocean as a thing that slept for months beneath a solid cap of ice. I jostled in dog sleds towed behind snow machines, out to fishing holes drilled into feet of ice, to check crab pots or fish for arctic grayling. I helped my parents with regular chores like chipping ice off the front stairs, shoveling a path through the snow from our door to the street, or digging our oldsmobile out so my dad could plug it in and run the engine occasionally.
How odd and exciting that I've neglected to explore that world underfoot until now. I really know so little about the magic and mechanics of deep ice. What I do have is a storehouse of memories; the sounds, the smells, and sensations of a world on ice.