I make paintings. I make drawings. They are the same to me. It’s visceral. It’s fluid. It crumbles. It’s quite literally earth. The viscosity, colors, textures of the materials when I’m moving them around is a very physical, satisfying and deeply emotional experience. When working I’m engaged in the materiality, my state of mind, and the things that have left impressions in me. These things, what I see in the world, the sky and the sidewalk, snow and shadows, water and trees, trains and graffiti, my dreams, my losses, my grief, my heart when it’s broken and when it’s overflowing with love, the art I look at all day on my phone, what I see and experience with my small son, the things I have squirreled away for later use or have tucked away never intending to revisit again, all these things make it into my work. They are distilled to essence, abstracted from their usual form, and usually not consciously. While most of the decisions made when painting and drawing are of a formal nature, what comes next, what mark, what color, where its placed, observing what’s come into existence so far, the conclusions are felt rather than made by an intellectual exercise. There is no spoken language, no words in these paintings. They are slow. They are endless experience collapsed into the confines of one image. Often the secret things that slip into them only reveal themselves to me much later, if at all.