I knew the tree when it grew, and the tree is now gone. The farmers cut it up, and it's become firewood. And there's this tremendous sense of absence and shock and violence attendant to that collapsing tree.

Once the fired stone is out of the kiln, it is still possible to mentally reconstruct it in its original form.

You must have something new in a landscape as well as something old, something that's dying and something that's being born.

If you repeat something, it can become pointless. Some things can repeat and be endlessly fascinating.

The photography is not the aim of the work; the articulation of the work through photography is another way of understanding what's going on and what's happening outside.

For me looking, touching, material, place and form are all inseparable from the resulting work. It is difficult to say where one stops and another begins. Place is found by walking, direction determined by weather and season. I take the opportunity each day offers: if it is snowing, I work in snow, at leaf-fall it will be leaves; a blown over tree becomes a source of twigs and branches.

I did tests on small stones before collecting and committing myself to the larger ones.