In the mind, individuals have a stockpile of images and feelings that merge undaunted by time and space separation. As I walk to the train, I smell the scent of the dogwood blossoms in the crisp morning air; the fresh smell immediately brings me to the front yard of my grandparents house, full of the voices, sounds, and colors so familiar. Likewise, in a painting, the coalescence of different images and actions on one planar surface confounds time, space, and sequence. Layers of images and ideas from different sources co-exist in paint; the associations brought into dialogue with each viewing become a part of the piece. What causes a particular memory (such as my grandparent memory) at a particular time and not at other times is beyond complete explanation; yet, it is not beyond understanding. Sensory understanding exists through experience, not through the medium of words.
The images in my paintings are mainly from the physical structures in my environment. I look at the surface mix of cracked mortar, shiny metal, peeling paint, and rusty scaffolds; I hear the rhythmic distance from chimney to chimney, branch to branch, and window to window; I think of the structural soundness of repetition, from the frame to the brick. As I work, I periodically refer back to these environmental sources, as well as conversations, books, music, patterns and other sources for ideas on color, form, and composition. The story of my process is embedded in layers of paint (layers of choices) visible on the canvas: a trail of past decisions shutting off certain paths to allow other possibilities. I'm searching, tweaking, scratching, both my mind and the image on the canvas, to uncover what I am really seeing and the process of how I see. On my microcosmic-level, I am looking into a larger system beyond the individual. I do not believe in chance or events without purpose, so I do feel that my search will reveal certain truths or aspects of a larger truth.