I am invested in the gestation of an object. The way a thing comes into being, like a rock or a snowball, compacted and varied. Shaped and affected by the strange attractions of the world itself. I wonder what it means to carry on making objects, and how to make the next one.
I grab at painting and try to form a thing that is as dense as a black hole while attempting to cull some poetic out of a rag or a stick. At the base level, the work is about material, more specifically the material language of painting and the potential therein. I am informed by things that grow from themselves, where the meaning is found radiating off of them in some gaseous, amorphous fog, formless but there. I try to lasso some of the energy that exists while I am making, some contained power, and keep it there. After good days, I am left with the object in the room with me, haunting and inconsolable, making me want to keep going.