Intervals mark the distance between things. Some distances are fixed and measurable, as in music—a major fifth, a minor third. Other intervals change with circumstances, as in the route driven between one place and another. The most complex intervals are those marking time, as the way we experience the passage of time can flux regardless of the empirical measurement. We mark time with anniversaries, some volubly, as in years of marriage, others quietly and privately, as in the instance of death or divorce. These intervals are not fixed; they grow ever larger and stretch out before us. Within each person’s story of their lifetime, various measured intervals overlap, dividing experience into varied fragments of time.
In my recent installations, it is a wooden floor that becomes fragmented. The wooden panels began as modules that fit together into one large triangle. To create the look of a continuous wooden floor, I made each panel with a staggered edge, mimicking the way you would lay floorboards. The panels then slid into each other, interlocking to create a seamless surface. However, as I was sliding panels together in the studio, I responded to the spaces created while the panels were only partially slid together (or partially pulled apart). The fragmentation seemed to parallel the way we piece together memories, never able to completely recreate past experience. Our vision of the future is comparable, as we can predict some things but not others. The spaces between came to signify both gaps in our memory and the unknown in our future.