Every so often I like to share pieces of my creative backstory here—moments that shaped not just my art, but the way I see the world. This one goes back to a discovery that has never really left me: parallel lines.
Parallel lines weren’t part of my plan.
They arrived almost by accident—but once I started, I couldn’t stop, just like with so many other of my artitstic experiments.
In the beginning, I was working on a series of 11x14 mandalas.
Then, on a whim, I drew lines. I didn’t know why. I only knew that I wanted to return to them, again and again. Over the years I’ve made countless variations—experimenting with colors, scaling up in size, even dedicating an entire solo exhibition to them.
That show still stands out in my memory.
The gallery wall was long, and I arranged the work like a spectrum: all blue pieces on one end, all red on the other, and in the center, a merging of red, blue, and black. Moving inward, the works gradually incorporated the “opposite” color so viewers could feel the shift.
It wasn’t just about stripes on paper.
I created internal rhythms, mirrored works above and below each other, so the wall itself became a meta-pattern. The story was as much social commentary as visual art: an exploration of how people on the left and right may appear opposed, but up close, there’s complexity, crossover, and shared humanity.
But the lines weren’t only political.
They were also deeply personal.
Living with Asperger’s means I carry a constant, low-level anxiety. Repetition—whether tens of thousands of parallel marks, or music with steady beats—gives me calm.
Some people use stim toys. I make art. The act of repetition grounds me, breath by breath, mark by mark. Viewers often describe the pieces as meditative, and for me that’s literally true.
Mentors encouraged me to go bigger.
One fellow artist told me, “You need to make these large enough so someone can stand in front of them, have their entire field of vision filled, and feel immersed.”
So I scaled up to 22x30, then 40x60. Standing before a wall of these lines is no small thing—it’s an experience.
A painting professor once said that anyone can make a mark, but few could keep it consistent for even half an inch. My work holds tens of thousands of marks—steady, deliberate, layered into patterns within patterns.
Somewhere along the way I discovered the artwork of Agnes Martin.
An art professor mentioned I might be interested in her, and I had to admit I didn’t know who she was. That gap embarrassed me—especially since I was already immersed in modern and abstract art.
When I finally saw her work in person, first in Boston and later in Des Moines, the connection was instant.
Her devotion to line, pattern, and subtle repetition felt like a mirror.Our approaches are different, but I felt kinship. Now, her name often comes up when people see my work, and I’ve since collected books about her practice and philosophy.
Most recently, I experimented with teal and fluorescent orange, pushing my palette in new directions.
My redesigned website even opens with a time-lapse of me painting one of these pieces, so visitors immediately see the process.
The constant remains: parallel lines, repetition, immersion—and the pursuit of meaning through pattern.
Patterns have always been where I find calm and connection. I’d love to hear from you—what patterns do you return to in your own life, creative or otherwise?
Closing Note
This post is part of my memoir-in-progress, Lines on the Spectrum. These lines are just the beginning—markers on a path I’ll continue unfolding in future posts, where art and life intertwine in unexpected ways.