I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t have a great answer to the question of why I paint/draw/design/write what I do. I don’t have a deep philosophical reason for my art. There is not a societal message that I’m trying to advance, or an enigma of nature I’m attempting to explore. Mostly, it is simply what I do. There is something deep inside of me that compelled me to pick up a pencil and then a brush and has never let me put them back down. Perhaps I should delve into the deeps of my mind and soul to discover where this compulsion comes from, to understand what drives the creative force within me, but I admit that it is something I shy away from. It is something I feel I should not shine to bright of a light on so that it does not burrow deep and disappear. Perhaps it is a genius (in the greek sense) that has found me to be an acceptable conduit.
I have always loved the making of tangible media. There has always been something mystical to me about the act of physically creating something and leaving it behind.
I paint because I long to paint. The smell of the linseed oil, the scratching of the brush on canvas, the mixing of paint, the intense study of a subject. It is the physical connection with what I’m creating. I paint songs. I paint people. I paint dreamscapes, and landscapes, and feelings, and moments.