Why I Made Things.

Making things gave Jeff a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that other parts of life didn't provide in the same way. It was a form of expression that felt honest — a way to put something into the world that could outlast the moment it was made in.

Across fifty years, that held. Not recognition. Not income. Not audience. Satisfaction — in the act, and in having made something real.

"Satisfaction of making something with whatever I had available."

The word "whatever" matters. The materials were whatever was around — found objects, discarded things, remnants. The constraint was real. The satisfaction was real too.

Jeff made things as a child. He made things through school, through a career as a designer, through raising a family. He made things when there was no time or money for it. He still makes things now, at 71.

There was never a period when he stopped.

"Became a way of my life making art / never had money / jealous of all the other artist that did."

The jealousy was about materials — about what other artists could do with resources he didn't have. It wasn't about recognition or status. It was about scale. About what you can do when you have the tools for it.

Making things was not a hobby or a side project. It was how he understood himself.

Art supplies were always too expensive. So Jeff built work from what was available: CDs, computer floppies, keyboards, prism paper from school, things from the dollar store, tape.

"Something that still had a life left in it."

That phrase captures something essential. The found materials weren't just cheap substitutes for proper art supplies. They were objects with previous lives — discarded, written off, done. Taking them and making them into something else was the point.

This wasn't a conceptual position at first. It was financial reality. Over fifty years, it became identity. Discarded objects becoming something else was not just necessity — it was how Jeff understood what making things meant.

The connection to Robert Rauschenberg's Combines — objects from the world assembled into art — became clear over time. Rauschenberg had already explored that territory. When Jeff realized it, he kept going anyway. See: What Rauschenberg Already Did →

An estimated five hundred to one thousand works were lost to water damage. Jeff stood on the sidewalk and watched them wait for the garbage men to take them away.

"I made some great large pieces and I thought they were really good."

"Sad. Enough."

That is all that was said about it. Whatever happened after — whatever the loss actually cost him internally — has not yet been captured.

What's documented is this: the loss did not stop the making. The work continued. This archive is evidence of that.

Some of the lost work exists now in exactly one photograph — appearing incidentally in the background of something else. You can see it was there. You cannot see it clearly. See: Lost Works →

For approximately four years, Jeff has been incorporating his grandchildren's drawings into his work. The boundary between their contribution and his has become unclear.

"Getting hard to tell where they end and I begin. I think that's right."

This is the only part of the practice that faces forward — still happening, involving living people other than Jeff, with no clear endpoint.

In fifty years, the most likely reason someone opens this archive is to recognize hands they know. The work has begun to contain those hands.

See the collaborative works: Collaboration →

Over the course of decades, Jeff came to understand that Robert Rauschenberg had already explored much of the territory he had been working in. When asked what he discovered: "Nothing ground breaking."

The art world was not paying attention. There was no income from the work, and there never had been. Most of what he considered his best work was gone. The territory wasn't new.

When asked what he did: "Kept going."

Why — that question has not been fully answered. It may be the question that most deserves an answer. It will be returned to in a future session.