In 1970, with Dartmouth and UCLA close behind, I tilted my dual pursuits of film and sculpture toward the latter. After a solo bicycle trip across Canada to clarify my thinking, I returned East and bought an old, 200 acre farm in Northern Vermont. My earliest sculptures there were made of welded, unfinished steel. Each was organized around a central core, drawing on the Russian Constructivists and the Bauhaus Schools. I admired the striking work, self resolve, and independent spirit of artists such as David Smith and Mark Di Suvero. Like them, I found steel a powerful, directly expressive material able to range from humble and organic to bold and spirited.

In the mid 70's, I installed a second overhead crane system in my studio, which unexpectedly, changed my work entirely. My newfound ability to safely support the elements in space allowed me to break away from a structural dependency on a central supporting core. The center exploded sending the elements flying. This begged the question: What happens when a viewer approaches a sculpture and parts of it fill his vision?

Instead of reading the work solely as an object at a distance, now the viewer was invited in. What is the perceptual moment when the outside gives way to the inside? While we all know how it feels to be inside a room, how are we affected if the walls bend in, if the ceiling opens up?

Since I expected adults to enter the sculptures, I had to create openings which were comfortably sized, non-threatening, and intriguing. The size of these openings then uniquely determined the work's overall scale. The impact of a piece was strongest when I kept the components within the viewer's perceived or actual reach. Even though humans stand vertically, they move primarily in horizontal patterns; consequently, I decided that my sculptures would have increased resonance if they developed in broad, horizontal configurations. To evaluate these new spatial relationships I moved in, around, and through a developing piece, going beyond the visual; trusting my kinesthetic responses to tell me what "worked".

My interest during this period was to use steel to bring to life a purity of form and to relate spaces to one another with a dynamic yet simple elegance.

In 1978 I took an extensive trip through South America encountering fascinating remains of past cultures, as well as unfamiliar plant, animal, and land forms. I was repeatedly struck by the narrative content that could be contained in something as common as a wall, revealing, for example, multiple stories of the people who designed, built, rebuilt, painted, and plastered over it. I wanted my sculptures to have these narrative attributes, but could not wait for people, time, and the elements to act. Upon returning home, I picked up a three ton boulder, lifted it thirty feet, and literally shot it out of the air, dropping it on a pre-positioned steel plate. The results brought an immediate history to the plate by encapsulating the energy of the moment.

To combine these more complex, telling components into an integrated, harmonious whole required that I stop thinking of steel as hard, linear, and "masculine". Steel could be plastic and fluid. I could push it to greater extremes both structurally and visually: cutting, bending, twisting, folding, pulling, and deforming it, asking that it imply motion or appear to float like tissue paper.

I spent the winter of 1982 in New York City, where I painted and thought about color in relation to the sculptural surface. On returning to Vermont (with my new wife, Sarah), I started applying paint to my new sculptures. Color helped establish a unique mood and unify the elements. As I gained experience, I introduced two, three, and four colors to these surfaces to bring out character and dimensionality.

Throughout the eighties, I was invited to create several pieces for public, corporate, and university spaces. These opportunities posed new challenges as I endeavored to transform utilitarian sites into meaningful places. Working with developers, architects, museum staff, and city and state government officials proved to be an invaluable learning experience.

For twenty years Vermont had provided a perfect place to develop ideas and work without distractions. I had drawn inspiration from the landscape, in all its seasons, particularly from the oscillations of the hills, observing how they intersected with the horizon and with one another. Trips to the American Southwest, Europe, and Africa had filled me with new images, and informed my understanding of space. But by the early nineties I felt limited by the isolation of living in Vermont year round. Sarah felt similarly, and we began to search the country for a winter haunt. As natives of the Northeast, we wanted this new place to afford a different look and warmer winters. We sought the rich cultural and intellectual offerings of an urban university town and eventually chose Austin, Texas.

My sculpture during this period increasingly explored many of the concerns of architecture, becoming more shelter-like. With the completion of "Look Homeward" I had to design a house. Over the next few years, we bought a property in Austin and hooked up with local architect Patrick Ousey. Together, Patrick and I developed plans. I built a playful, sculptural house and a studio, furniture, and landscape related elements. More recently, I bought the adjacent lot for a sculpture display space, built a steel and concrete pavilion, and executed two cast in place concrete sculptures. These Austin years have broadened my range of projects and use of materials.

Sarah and I now migrate between the natural beauty of Vermont and the richness of Austin's community. I develop, realize, and display my "large scale" ideas in Vermont, while Texas serves as my alternative-media think tank.