Autobiography is an endless subject. Our collection of memories of moments is something that expands each time we address it. Not only do we collect moments as the days pass, but the act of deliberately recalling them always leads to more being drawn out of the storage space in our minds. I am a painter who loves nostalgia, loves paint, loves mess. Each painting is a battle, left in the end for the viewer to formulate their own reaction to the fight. Technically, composition has been a constant question in my work, with tradition dictating the format, the same way we address an envelope or write out a check. Working with a more organic chain of events, I’ve been able to find a method that keeps the soul in the painting, and allows for emphasis on the pertinent information. Filling in the blank spaces just for the sake of obligation is no longer a concern. The physical timeline of building the piece is evident in the final presentation, and the painting remains an object which is approachable by the viewer.
The lost soul of an artist is a pathetic thing. We are driven by obsessions we stand no chance to escape. As I dig through these little blinks of time I find hints of reprieve, glimpses of who I was at that moment, and sometimes understanding for how that moment affected every moment after it. Someone once told me that with each pitch in a baseball game, that game completely changes. My work is my unraveling of the pitch by pitch of my past.