Evan Marshall

A single fragment from the past—a fossil, an arrowhead, a shard of pottery—can tell an extraordinary story. An arrowhead, for example, may look like just a piece of stone. But in its shape and sharpness, we sense the person who once shaped it, carried it, and depended on it for survival. It becomes not only an artifact, but also a story. The same is true of fossils. An imprint of a shell, a fern, or even a dinosaur track isn’t just a mark in stone. It’s time collapsed into an image.

You walk into a room, see a painting, and feel it in your chest. You don’t know why—you just do. Maybe the colors speak to you. Maybe it reminds you of something you can’t quite name. Maybe you just can’t stop looking. And then someone asks:“What do you like about it?” That question can make even seasoned collectors freeze up. You might feel pressure to explain the artist’s technique, or say something impressive about composition, or throw in an art historical reference.

When I first started making art seriously, I painted whatever caught my interest in the moment—a landscape here, an abstract there, a still life for good measure. It was exciting, but I noticed something: the more scattered my work was, the harder it was to talk about it, to exhibit it, or to sell it. It wasn’t until I started working in series—focused bodies of work with a unifying idea or style—that things began to shift.