On the backs of the envelopes my grandfather saved for me, I would scribble his farm animals.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM4JqL3eYmFa8nCerzDqm7k6zdbfPyBGm2yHeZ0CjiJ3fQZaxPQJNbQvQBQ-YxXI6vl6N6MkcvL3T2Th7Mb0hI3SldCsRLa0g5PAhTjCli-IGXXFcMlZ-kG6mLkXWRrbfnlbzvsC8rV0k/s200/flower+rubbing.jpeg)
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I threaded ribbon to hinge together scallop shells, with collaged worlds of pressed seaweeds and remnants of tiny tidepool creatures between them, beachcombed from the summer.
In 1993, I spied my nine-year old son (then an aspiring ninja) tiptoeing through the streets and Shintō shrines of Yashiro.
Such are the memories that echo inside as I watch children play make-believe, ready to catch the loose threads of possibility and weave new worlds… It is these ephemeral moments of play and adventure that I hope to distill into my illustrations.
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For selections of my professional history, please read my curriculum vitæ.
Contact: hansengarden at gmail dot com.