About

I recall being a small boy wandering through a new construction site. My uncle, a contractor, would often take me along for site inspections. We entered through a large glass door, most likely a slider, into what seemed a huge daylight soaked room.

The sheetrock hangers had just finished their first mud coat on a room full of blue board and had sanded down the dry compound leaving only the white of the remaining dry, chalky compound and dust on the brilliant blue of the wallboard. Seams ran in long perpendicular patterns with swirls of much smaller white where the nail holes had been filled.

I was smitten with what I saw. I was in awe of its scale and the predictability of the lines and dots. The occasional nail hole out of sequence seemed so natural, even intentional as if meant to give character to the otherwise consistent, mind numbing repetition. I knew there was something extraordinary about this, but had no knowledge nor point of reference to explain what it was.

I knew then, that I would never see the world the same as everyone else. I knew then that there was magic in even the most mundane for me.