I came to Tucson with a box full of dirt from Wyandot County knowing it would be my only connection to my home for months. I dug ten separate holes from ten different locations of significance to my life (my parents childhood homes, my elementary school, etc.) and put the dirt in individually labeled zip lock bags. Breaking through the earth with my shovel I was partaking in the same activity as the workers around me with a much different outcome in mind. Unsure of what to do with these samples, I began painting the mud onto found photographs as an exercise to get me making. I quickly fell in love with the texture of the dried mud crackling off of the photographic surface – its unpredictability, and chalky appearance. Mud is not a precious object; it is a real object, one that provides a living for countless Americans out here in the middle. I am not sure where this project is headed, but I find my power to erase selections from these forgotten slices of time to be fascinating. As I sit here procrastinating the presentation I have to give tomorrow, I thought it was well past time I share these objects with all of you.