STATEMENT

I rarely paint people, but you get a sense that they aren't far away. Here is a table with no one sitting at it. There is a house with no signs of life. Taken as a whole, my paintings seem to be an endless succession of recently vacated spaces. This effect is further magnified by the lines that often break the canvas into units of time. There is a past here, but more important is the present.

The "present" in my paintings is sometimes (but not always) nearly devoid of color. The color is there, but it's soft or sometimes hidden under a layer of white. It's like a whisper that compels you to enter the painting in order to hear it. You are drawn into the empty room, the darkened house, the barren field. The space is then inhabited by you and the things that fill your head when you find yourself alone. Sometimes these are the things you fear the most.

Growing up in the comfortable Midwest, my subconscious had to go out of its way to find things to be afraid of. I have a fear of flying and car accidents. These completely reasonable fears live beside my fear of expired food or of birds flying through the open window of my car. Reasonable or not, each of these fears has found its way into my paintings in one form or another, either literally or in more abstract ways that represent my vague lack of personal security. I paint these fears as a way of legitimizing them (for many of them are unfounded), while at the same time stealing some of their power.

Along with this implied revelation, each of my paintings contains (in essence) a simple story. These stories are told by the viewer to themselves using the simple icons on the canvas. The house you see is your house. The swing set is from your childhood. The isolation you feel is your own.

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