Some years ago, I became interested in the idea of writing in three dimensions. In particular, I envisioned a book with clear pages, where forms—made of words—would seem to hang in air. So I set out to make such a book and found that, by sandblasting text onto sheets of glass, I could create the effect I sought. For example, in the glass book "Trees in Winter," words wind into the silhouettes of trees, receding into a snowy distance. Since I develop text and shapes together, they inform one other, often in oblique ways. In "Trees in Winter," the words create a narrative, partly a meditation on the paradox of bare trees (apparently lifeless, but filled with life), partly a meditation on parallax and distance. It is not important to me that every passage be legible to the viewer; I'd hope rather that snatches of phrases, shifting images, and the stillness of the glass can be triagulated by the viewer to form meaning from many angles.