When I put my brush to the canvas, nothing in the world exists for me except for the uncertainty, and the potential in the pigment. When I stand back from a finished painting, I cannot comprehend how my own hands created such a thing. I am compelled to keep a relic from each of my paintings, because, once created, my characters belong to their own world and no longer inhabit mine.

I search for that which is otherworldly or odd; I lust for anachronisms. I seek to know the hidden life of things both living and inanimate. The secrets of my characters and their worlds captivate me, and I...

When I put my brush to the canvas, nothing in the world exists for me except for the uncertainty, and the potential in the pigment. When I stand back from a finished painting, I cannot comprehend how my own hands created such a thing. I am compelled to keep a relic from each of my paintings, because, once created, my characters belong to their own world and no longer inhabit mine.

I search for that which is otherworldly or odd; I lust for anachronisms. I seek to know the hidden life of things both living and inanimate. The secrets of my characters and their worlds captivate me, and I am always surprised by the moment of magic when they begin to speak to me. I simply let their voices radiate through my painting, although the origin of that voice is a mystery.