I imagine I am looking at a glass filling with milk. It fills and fills to the very top. I have to wait patiently until it reaches a crucial point where it cannot possibly hold any more. Its surface is bulging. My gaze never wavers. I hover above it and reach very slowly to touch it with my finger. Immediately it responds, leaching up my finger and running down my palm and my wrist, dripping, warming to my skin.
There is a fluctuation, an exchange. It is strange how it seems to defy gravity, but this happens naturally. Though contrary to thought, the rivets of milk on my skin reveal complexity and simple sense simultaneously. This messiness fits. This mess is my attraction to working.
This is how I want my work to function, leading the milk out of the glass through a single point of contact. My work strives for that nuance of displacement.
For this reason, this insatiability, I have found it impossible to put away the constant pursuit of art-making. I have too many questions about the nature of conscious living and connection. The purpose of my work eludes me, as a necessity. That is, it evades a declaration but clambers ahead on footholds for me to follow. It weaves in and out of clarity.
To this end, my work has revealed itself as a crucible. I am seeking an experience to evaporate out all of the unnecessary elements from my vast references in order to create a denser solution. I desire to elicit fully the invitation of humanness and vulnerability. I've always drawn on the language of the scavenger, the haunted collector. Mine is a process of complete self-containment and perpetual manipulation. I must sit with the work. Stew. Novelty never made much sense to me. I cannot make whimsy meaningful.
This is the disquieting seduction of painting in particular. Its physicality as object is part and parcel to the ongoing procession of religious activity surrounding it. Painting will always be some part of my process.
Above all I work to extrude a plea of connectivity to others.