BOB ERICKSON

When I walk in the woods, I see branches arching over a bed of moss as it clings to a granite outcropping. I feel a gust of wind and hear the cracking of hemlocks. I notice the morning sun on birch bark and the evening shadows on oak leaves. At the edge of a mountain brook, roots make their way through black soil around splintered rocks and piles of pine needles. I smell life and death in the earth. I remember this time and all the times I have been in the woods. 

 

When I go into the studio, I make images out of drawings and photographs that I have layered, scanned, digitally manipulated, drawn, painted or collaged. The images are printed on old or new papers that I sand, scrape or dye. As I work, I attempt to recreate the natural processes of weathering, illuminating and obscuring. I search for simple forms that evoke fragile, yet enduring moments. For me, the act of making art is an act of reflection of what I have seen, recollected and revered.