Art is both a way into my life and a way out. My work owes much to narrative and memory, but almost anything can trigger a painting – a stray line, fear, the downright pleasure of color, a poem, an unkind impulse. Compelled and constrained by my own limitations, a piece often begins as one thing and winds up something else entirely.
I’m reluctant to examine or impose meaning on my work. Because of a serious backwards streak, I’m acutely uncomfortable promoting it. The act of painting itself is private, visceral and blind. I trust in a seemingly haphazard intuition – and luck – to occasionally produce something true.