Cerebral Cacophony
Art is essentially interior. It is the not-too-successful organization of an internal chaos. It is,
quite simply, me ... talking to myself. It is the way I document the realities and fictions that make
up my private paradigms; the place where I describe incidentals in their minutiae and hope that their
significance is revealed serendipitously. My art is a cryptic record of who I am and how I got there.
My dreams give image and voice to what I find incomprehensible and confusing: the tyranny of happenstance.
Much of what I paint is autobiographical. For the rest, I rely on more than a century of my family's history. Photographic portraits, snapshots, private letters, receipts, death notices, mass cards, wedding invitations, address books, newspaper clippings, sundry personal notes and reminiscences provide me with clues to the meaning of their lives.
These people make up more than just my genetic code. In the poignant, often anonymous intimacy of their detritus, I find the seeds of every thought I have ever had.
Often, my paintings both literally and figuratively conceal multiple layers of an animated and evolving story. The top layer is simply the most recent freeze-frame of the story. Each underlying painting has informed the one that followed and imbued it with an intrinsic truth.