Anton Chekhov, doctor and writer, cried out in despair during the dissection of a cadaver: "Where is the soul in all of this?" I sort of feel like chastising himÉAnton, oh ye of little faith! Haven't you ever seen a dying person? Eyes wide open, changed somehow, not seeing what the rest of us see, becoming, like the rest of the body, containers that are no longer necessary. What is the difference between a person who is moving out of this life, and one who has just departed? Anton, Sir, begging your pardon, the difference is obvious. A body is not, in and of itself, a soul. It is mortal and frail, despite its best efforts. Seek not there. But keep seeking!

I believe one must admit to whatever exists, and deny nothing. Each day I try to remember that I have an approaching deadline. What is the deadline? Being dead. Losing my body, my container, my vessel, my dinghy, my blow-up raft. In the words of a sweating couple I was walking behind at a street festival, "Ain't nuthin' but a thang!" Did you know that unique to operations on the limbs is the use of tourniquets to control the loss of blood? Time is critical. Surgeons work under a clock that runs backwards to mark the remaining time. A deadline. Keeps you on your toes.

So I make images, in part, to track my remaining time. Medical supplies, left used or unused after the recent, chronologically inappropriate death by cancer of a beloved parent, are stark reminders of mortality. Remnants of natural forms, such as a wasp's nest (which, by the way, looks a whole lot like magnified human lung tissue), have been caught in the act of decay. Hair, obstinately gathered before the effects of chemo would cause uncontrolled loss, are the only remnants of a family's matriarch, Gaia, earth-mother. Nature will have its way. We will insert plastic tubes to deliver life-maintaining substances, or to deliver pain-controlling substances, or to eliminate waste, but in the end our bodies are as the carcasses of the birds you see in my work. Woe to the Chekhovs of the world who WANT to find the soul in the body, 'cause when you die, it ain't nuthin' but a thang that has served it fascinating, incredible purpose. An escort service for the spirit, if you will.

So Mr. Chekhov, maintain your vigilance, as every single one of us is mortal and frail. And remember this: the ancient Greeks would inhale the last breath of a dying person, in whose breeze the spirit would depart. This way a living, loving body would carry on the soul of the dead, which had no use for the body that failed it. The universe makes no exceptions, and therefore calls on us to celebrate today.