My father was a sculptor. I remember he would tinker in the basement for hours. If you wanted his attention you learned to tinker too. He worked with metals, copper, brass, soldering guns, torches. To a kid, this was pretty cool. He would go to work before the sun came up and would come home when it was dark again. I don't think he liked his job very much, but I would see him come home and lose himself in melting steel and flaming metals. This was his sanity, his escapism, his brilliance, his genius. We didn't have much growing up, but my Barbie had a noble steel horse to ride, and a beautiful brass bed.

There is something so attractive about being alone and getting lost in your sculpting. Hours upon hours pass, and you're dirty, hungry and exhausted. Where did you go? How long have you been there?

Yes, I would love my art to affect people. To remind them of something personal, something forgotten, something provocative. To make people feel, think, question, imagine. To evoke an emotion, of love, sadness, joy, passion. Or just simply be beautiful. It is this constant calling to create. This relentless aching need to strive to be better than before.

My father is gone now, and I get such a kick out of losing myself, tinkering in the studio for hours upon hours.