If I ask what motivates me as I paint, there is no one answer to that question. What does stand out is an underlying desire to peer beneath the surface while wondering: what am I feeling? What do my eyes see when closed? What is the unremembered dream? In this manner of approaching painting the most satisfaction seems to come from a painting not understood. Let others see what they may. Automatic scripting with a paintbrush has its own language, and whispers different legends to the ears of different people. Isn’t it better to celebrate mystery than find an answer (not that I don’t look), which, much like empires, pyramids, and schemes, will all come to dust, perhaps to become fallow in the deep, dark soil of the earth, awaiting new seeds? Put simply, intellect fails me, as well as any dogma, and in that failure I find solace in art.
I like the quirky, the enigmatic and the strange with which life seems to abound, as much as it does with beauty and all that’s terrible. The “ supernatural” is simply another door to go through, another stairway to climb, or descend. In the context of what’s come before, I feel more affiliation with symbolists, the Surrealists, or that undercurrent (?) of spirituality on which so much abstract art has journeyed. Whether I am or not, I do not feel as an artist that I represent the mainstream art historical story, which seems kind of dry and brittle. Similarly I find civilization more aglow in out of the way coffee shops and bookstores, or with rocks balanced atop each other in the desert, and less in museums or upon the face of monuments.