In the warehouse district of Minneapolis, John and Jane Doe have an opportunity to become part of my art. For eighteen years I have kept an open window to my life. It's called the House of Balls. Anyone can come, anytime, and push buttons at the glass portal. That push gives life to figures on the other side. The voices you hear are not a sign of schizophrenia, but a means for you to share your thoughts with the rest of the world. Press the lever at the door, speak into the microphone and leave your treatise. I answer questions. But I also raise them. "What do you do with the tears?" "Where is the oddest place you've made love?" "What is the meaning of strife?" A blackboard on the front door has posed each of these queries to passers by. When I am sculpting inside, turn the doorknob, cross the threshold and wonder. You have now entered my world. Pressure cookers are plasma cut. Crankshafts are braised. Chicken feet are epoxied. They all become images of the human figure. But carved bowling balls are my distinction. I subtract the resin, revealing a face or full body within and sometimes feel as if I am removing the layers of my own psyche. This is the origin of the name House of Balls. I think it's come to mean something more as well; the idea that we all possess the creative impulse and owe ourselves the balls to express it.