My work gets into trouble when it tries too hard to be serious or important. It stiffens up and resolves too soon, before anything unexpected has had a chance to blossom. The paintings that feel most alive are the ones that stay curious to the end and, ideally, invite the viewer’s curiosity as well.
From the start, curiosity shapes the way the paintings come together. Colors meander from serene to boisterous, and blobby forms, wandering lines, and lazy geometries scatter across a restless, pale background. It all feels caught in that space between coming together and drifting apart.
Over time, each canvas holds a record of the discoveries, the revisions, the second guesses, and the spectacular failures along the way. What matters is how all the improvised forms, colors, and gestures affect one another. Some get along. Some bicker. Others outright revolt. And everything keeps shifting. A mark that seemed brilliant on Tuesday can look ridiculous by Wednesday morning. The goal isn't to get rid of that implicit uncertainty but to keep it active all the way through.
Of course, that state of flux isn’t confined to painting. Nothing ever stays put for long. Relationships, communities, ecosystems, even our sense of self are always being assembled and reassembled—holding together for a while, then reorganizing into something else. What emerges from the canvas reflects this makeshift world built from what we inherit, what we encounter, and what we contribute. A world that occasionally reveals its own absurdities and, if we're paying attention, might let us in on the joke.
