I've painted for almost eight years now. I started in 2003 when I drove the country up and down and fell in love with people. Existence is too amazing to be unexamined I thought; too rich to be uncelebrated. Well, now I want to dissect things, tear them apart. I love to unravel things just as much as I love to marvel over them. Paint lets me do this, it covers things up, it washes them clean, it even dresses their graves with flowers. It's charming company has been an eyepiece to my mind, adding one thing, removing another. But like my mind, it only partially pulls the covers. Nothing ever fully disappears. Things breathe, they move about and scramble. They can even crack, taking the broken pieces and making a mirror out of them. And when this happens you are left with an idea, one that wasn't there before. Paintings may very well be the residue of these ideas, an artifact, waiting to leap into the mind and down into the hands and feet of the viewer. You have to slow down, relax your muscles and let your pores open up if you're gonna see it. Only then, when you are not too concerned with the outcome, will inspiration enter through the tiny holes in your skin and cling to your slow and unhurried breaths. Then you will travel together, hand in hand with the muse, to places where you can breathe the air of your own imagination...