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Most of my pieces begin from a fully formed idea. I'll be walking, showering, driving or otherwise immersed in the mundane when, like a clap of thunder, there it is. "Pull of the Moon" came about while hiking in the mountains of California. I stopped on the path, struck by all of the life around me: Trees, scrub jays, lichens, ground squirrels and airplanes. All of the billions of lives that have gone before evolving from the deep past into this dazzling diversity. Then there came the image of a spiral staircase (DNA-like) made from thousands of minute bones ascending ethereally, carrying our forgotten histories.

I try to convey the content of the work through the scale, image, material and title. Recently I've been using the remains of found creatures, mummified or skeletal, as a source of identification. Tiny mice, huge cow and human femur bones look much the same, differing primarily in size. In "Beast of Burden", a 9-foot tall old-style rocket made from cattle leg and jaw bones, I tried to communicate the merging of the weight of our brutish past and the striving to explore and understand our place in the future.

"Time and Again", a galaxy image, is another sculpture made from bones (pulverized). The heavy elements that make up our worlds and us, such as carbon, iron and calcium, are created in stars and supernovae. As Carl Sagan said, "we are starstuff pondering the stars". Bones, for me, communicate a variety of ideas. From the knowledge of our countless ancestors to our very origins, to their universal qualities and ties to other creatures, they are timeless. And of course, there is mortality.

One of the wonderful things about being a sculptor today is that one can use virtually any material: Bird parts, copper tubing, lizard heads, truck tires, mice molars, steel, burned tortillas, cat hair, glass rods, twine, bone dust and yes, even clay. Though I frequently combine disparate objects, it is important that there is no telltale signifier of the process. I want the objects to look as if they were born that way, as if you happened to stumble upon them in some long forgotten alchemist's attic. If you were to see glue, you would be back in this world, unable to wander further.

Sculpture, for me, is how I communicate my subtlest emotions and deepest beliefs succinctly. It can be frightening as an uncensored dream, humorous, or touch on the unknown and unknowable. At its best, it can reflect the human capacity for awe.

In "Waiting By The Moon", a flock of birds sits perched in front of a lunarscape. The moon is a breathless, still place. The birds are wrapped in twine, mute and waiting for a transformation. Mummies and insect pupae go though an internal quiet change to become something wholly different. I can't help wondering, what are we becoming and where are we going? It's in our very marrow to ask.

--Sarah Perry, 2003