My creative process begins with a memory; it could be a drinking glass from childhood or a funny story. Often ideas for paintings arrive in my mind during states of daydreaming — possibly during a walk or after a conversation that elicits memories of the past. My work reexamines all kinds of memories: happy, difficult, bittersweet, nostalgic. It is simply the file cabinet of my mind being slowly pulled out and exposed through the medium of paint.
Often, I consider the divide between the actual event and its existence as memory — one operates in the physical world, the other in the mental plane; I like to think that the act of painting bridges these two. Though these memories are my own, I trust that their vulnerability and honesty will allow a baseline of universal emotion to come through. A painting is complete with a sense of crisp, clicking closure — suddenly the emotions I feel for the subject parallel what I feel when looking at the painting — it is like a door locking shut. This finality to the image is also difficult because it means I more than likely will not return to this particular subject.
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