In the book I’m reading right now, “Kafka on the Shore” by Haruki Murakami, one character says to another, “Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves.” I found myself reading this line over and over because I knew it struck a chord. It seemed like such a simple statement, but for some time I couldn’t combine the words in my mind to create or complete the thought. I finally realized that this is what art making is for me. It’s like reading this line, this combination of words, which can have any kind of meaning you would like, simple or complex, putting the idea together with disparate experiences, objects, memories, reordering things along the way until everything falls into momentary place. I usually don’t see it coming, but when it’s arrived I know it immediately. That’s the thing I hold on to; that is the piece of art and I fall in love with it. At that moment in time, everything is complete; nothing is missing.