Julien Birch

Words are difficult. When language fails me, I find my hands moving in the same repetitive way as my thoughts. The margins of my sketchbooks are lined with drawings of tiny prisms, cones pouring water, spheres in pools of dark shadow, cylinders dashed and lined, and multifaceted geometric shapes. My sculptures are born from these doodles. Their scale reflects that origin. They are tiny. They are miniature. They are meant to be held, examined, felt, enjoyed. As my drawings transform from paper into physical objects, they take on new contexts and meaning. Abstracted shapes resemble familiar daily objects, kitchen implements, vessels, and a child’s wooden blocks. Images of water, frozen in ceramic, sit as heavy as they do in my memory of a flood- not moving and fast like a current, but unbending and unrelenting as stone.


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