Sometimes an artist writes or draws or constructs herself out of existence. It's not suicide really. She just got herself so deeply involved in the work that she lost track of reality and forgot how to get back. The artist kept making and remaking until she found the heart of her own story. As an artist I condense, until I've pared away all the excess, and only disjuncture and abstraction are left. All the flesh has rotted away and only the skeleton remains. The viewer/reader can wrap the leftover bones in anything: brown paper bags, silk, memory. When the artist gives the reader the flesh of the work, there are no hidden places to explore, no questions to ask, no connections to make. Both my working process and my artist's books consist of layers and layers that must be picked at, like the leaves of an artichoke with a heart at the center.