For twenty-nine years I have kept an open window to my life. It's called the House of Balls. Pressure cookers are plasma cut. Crankshafts are braised. Chicken feet are epoxied. They all become images of the human figure. But carved bowling balls are my distinction. I subtract the resin, revealing a face or full body within and sometimes feel as if I am removing the layers of my own psyche. This is the origin of the name House of Balls. I think it's come to mean something more as well– the idea that we all possess the creative impulse and owe ourselves the balls to express it.