Artistic Statement

Artistic Statement

I live under a kitchen sink.
Probably in a split level that needs a new fridge in suburban Indiana — suburban Indiana is rural Indiana to Chicagoans. One of the gaskets is loose (I couldn’t tell you which) and there is an open bottle of bleach that is starting to make me nauseous.

But here is where my stories are born. They drip from the old pipes, spill out of the cardboard bottle of Comet, miraculous emerge from a clot of old plastic bags that were thrown under here from the last trip to Town and Country before it got bought up by Kroger.

These are the beginnings of under-the-kitchen-sink plays, where the stories seem familiar until they are deeply and twistingly not. Where the wife isn’t dealing with being a wife but with a woman, like Bea in littlespace, or the daddy play. Or where the spunky next door neighbor isn’t just there for comic relief but for the unflinching love of an addict, like Angela in Regular.

I was not born under the sink, no, I crawled here from the secret life of an only childhood. The listening, the looking, the reading, the searching.

You’re always searching for something under that kitchen sink. You’ll always find more than what you bargained for. And usually? It's unnerving.