When I make my first brushstroke on a new work, I never have a destination in mind—the path is revealed as I go. My paintings are emotive expressions that emerge incrementally, drawn out by making one mark after another, after another, after another. Especially in the early stages of a painting, I work in a flow state, letting my gut and heart drive the process. I try to quiet my analytical impulses and trust that my creative wanderings will find their way, even when the destination is unclear. When I get stuck, I like to make a big move, or blow things up, which often takes the painting in a completely new direction. This process of call and response allows me to slowly bridle the propulsive energy that regularly appears in my paintings. Compositionally, chromatically, and texturally, my work teeters on the edge of chaos and order.

The practice of painting requires me to show up, be fully present, and commit myself to the moment. I always work on multiple paintings at once. This blurs the linear start-to-finish timeline and keeps me from getting stuck. My process is physical. Stripping, sanding, and scraping my surfaces expose earlier passages, like a river cutting through sedimentary layers of rock. I almost always listen to music when I paint. Whether it is John Coltrane, Joni Mitchell, or the Talking Heads, I channel their beats, melodies, and poetry into my paintings. These inputs are as important to my process as my paint and brushes. In a world where all things digital are the currency of the day, my work is proudly analog and one-of-a-kind.