Photographs, Giant Sequoias, fossils, ruins, the sea. I have always been drawn to that which harbors time. As a child, I would spend hours in the playground digging up rocks, imagining how they once arrived at this particular place. I obsessively collected stamps, coins, postcards, and gemstones like geodes and amethysts. In retrospect, I realize these objects all belong to a time other than my own. Collecting not only revealed my interest in history but also, as an escapist pursuit, was a reflection of what I found to be mundane and unepic about the everyday. A modest geode cradled in my palm was no longer just a geode but a portal that opened out of the pulsating darkness of my mind's eye onto a primordial world of molten lava and cataclysmic comets. Is this the result of too many space thrillers and sci-fi novels or is there something inherent in the object itself that calls forth a distant past? It is actually that the object is the only thread that connects us to another time?

The word anachronism literally means against time—ana- meaning against, up or backwards and chronos, the Greek word for time. But to the Ancient Greeks, there were two types of time—chronos and kairos. Chronos refers to chronological, sequential time, much as we think of time today, while kairos refers to a less literal, qualitative, more epic kind of time—a time of possibility pregnant with meaning and destiny. When thinking about anachronisms then, perhaps it is less about opposing time, or chronological inconsistencies clashing up against each other, but rather for kairos, for epic time. It is also worth noting that kairos has etymological origins in archery and weaving and, in both instances, refers to a hole or opening. Thus, I believe intrinsic to kairos is this notion of portals, perhaps even time travel.

My childhood collections are odes to kairos and to the fundamental longing for more time. Life is short. The present moment is perpetually fleeting away from us. These objects hold onto time in a way we never can or will be able to; they connect us to a past we will never know. They are like photographs taken before you were born, simultaneously providing access to the past's mysteries while remaining impenetrable to its realities. Through anachronisms, one vicariously understands an epic scale of time. They allow us to hold onto something more permanent than ourselves as we catapult into the future.

Perhaps this is what drew me to the photographs of Comet 67P/Churyumov-Gerasimenko. Comets are literal anachronisms. They come from another time, potentially billions of years into the past, hurling through space into our own, into the present. My drawings stem from a desire to connect to this other, to something larger than myself. Not only does the conté on black paper transform chalk into celestial light and fiber into the infinite void of space, but also, through the human hand, the gesture of drawing, the comet becomes us. We too are a rock in space, Earth. We too are a projectile traveling through time in a constant forward motion. With these drawings, I am reminded of how, when looking at distant stars, one is actually looking eons into the past because of the time it takes for light to travel vast distances. In other words, time travel exists within the gaze and the simple act of looking has the potential to be a kairotic act.