There was a time in my life when my affection for making images was both naïve and basic. It was enough for me to paint and draw and be done with it. I didn’t need any thing else. There was no allegory or metaphor, in my mind anyhow. I realize now that what I was in fact doing, was building my codex of symbols, well one symbol really.

Now, with all of this behind me and with all of the knowledge and the inferences one obtains through a thorough art schooling, I can tell you without any trepidation, exactly what it is my work is doing and what it will continue to do. I possess in my work, a surface playfulness that acts to subvert the underlying darker themes of loss, sexual frustration, aggression, loneliness, physical injury or physical irregularities, and themes of having no home or of being caught in some limbic state.

You know, R.B. Kitaj said, “It is, perhaps an original concept, to treat one’s art as something which not only replaces the inertia of despair, which may be common enough, but to press art into a fiction of undying love.” It is this “fiction” I am concerned with. I want my images to draw the viewer into the battle between the remembering self and the experiencing self. The “fiction” in my work is memory’s reenactment of experience. My work reeks of distemper.

The figures in my work gush with an immovable longing and they often stand alone, even if there is more than one occupying the image. I employ choppy lines combined with bold lines, often with radiant red-blue contrast, juxtaposed against un-stretched canvas or cut paper. These are more than blatant material references regarding the feeling of being an outsider and enable the viewer to ease into an uncomfortable place, a place of between-ness, a place of constant deviation. Each of my works brings with them their own translation of the language of self-awareness and insists upon a cosmology necessary to the human condition.