Cori Dantini would love to dress like her paper ladies and explore the world in their skirts and buns and neat little boots, but she is far too practical for that. In fact, she spends much of her time in her studio, covered in a mosaic of ink stains and glue dabs, bits of wordy paper clinging to her slippers. And, as it happens, her studio is not located in an Italian villa, but in eastern Washington where she has returned to her hometown of Pullman to ply her trade among its rolling wheat fields.
After earning a BFA in painting from Washington State University and spending a couple decades fiddling with brushes, oils, pencils, markers, and most recently, the mouse attached to her computer, she has discovered an organic process involving layers and language. Any meaning found in her work comes from this process. She never begins a project with a message in mind. Rather, the materials and her process are what do the talking. It is this mysterious, reciprocal quality of art that intrigues her and makes her think of her works as visual poems.
Fueled by coffee, muffins, and good black licorice, she goes in search of epiphany, in hopes that the moments she evokes will add layers to our d