September 2013 — I safely navigated, or at least it seemed so, the descent into hell I was spiraling toward. I could literally feel a shift — an upward movement in my soul. Writing was no longer filling the space.
I took a stack of discarded flyers from the garbage and, using whatever I had in the shed as binding agents — tape, glue, whatever was available — shaped a crude bowl. Several hours later, it became a story bowl, layered with pictures and words reflecting my present state of being.
FROM STAGE TO STUDIO
Tony saw a demonstration of the many uses of two-part epoxy and suggested it might give me the durable finish I was searching for. I got it — and I was instantly hooked. It felt as if we were meant to be together.
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Tony began bringing home discarded furniture pieces — solid craftsmanship, simply abandoned and in need of rebirth. While he handled repairs, I became obsessed with a large slatted doorway panel — perhaps once a room divider. I felt compelled to cut and paste onto it like an oversized collage. I had always loved doing that, but never seriously. At this point in my life, I refused to resist anything that filled me up. I was tired of feeling drained — empty.
January 2014 — the slats were completely covered in layers: pictures, drawings, poems, photographs from my past and present. It was becoming a multimedia story of my life — centered on the loss of identity and everything that loss inspired in me to reclaim my authentic self. It was nowhere near finished. My mind raced constantly with it, wherever I was. Therapy?
February 2014 — I turned 52. My first birthday in years that felt celebratory. I must be moving forward.
I began working on a beautiful oval coffee table and a strange vertical storage piece — someone suggested it may have once been a vegetable bin from the 1940s or ’50s. I wasn’t sure what I would do with them yet. Tony repaired them beautifully. I couldn’t wait to see what they would become.
I wasn’t going to plan it.
I would simply let the inspiration out when it demanded to be released.
ENCAPSULATED UNIVERSES
The Crooked Hooker’s materials come from the real world: skulls, rocks, turtle shells, tree limbs, and discarded objects—things with history, weight, and a previous life. He doesn’t hide their origins; he transforms them into symbols.
The result is a kind of visual archaeology—bright color emerging out of darkness, tenderness next to grit, humor beside grief. Each work holds contradictions on purpose, the way a good story does.
And because the final surface is resin—not glass—there’s no museum distance. The work meets you directly: glossy, physical, and intimate.
No filters. No barrier.
Just the raw remains of a story.
