In Falling, a single work comprising 16 individual drawings, scattered letters define rectangles of 8½ by 11 inches, some partial, some overlapping, like letter-size sheets of paper floating or falling in space. The drawings are, in essence, drawings of paper. Letters might be on the verge of landing on pages to form words, or might be flying off and away. Or both, or neither—in any case there is no text, just the elements of it, letters and paper.
The 16 drawings are interrupted by the spaces between them, as if by mullions, like panes of a large window. At times the view out this window recalls for me the morning when hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of sheets of paper lingered in space over Lower Manhattan, in silent, unnervingly beautiful counterpoint to the events of the day: sheets of paper that, like so many memories that morning, were released and dispersed into space.