I've made art, in one form or another, for as long as I can remember. Before I could read, I was drawing with crayons and pencils on any available surface (not always to the delight of my parents). Making art was like breathing or eating. I didn't think about it, I just did it. Over the course of my life, I've done other things, but I've always come back to art. It gives me comfort and sustenance like nothing else.
For the past decade or so, I’ve been an abstract painter. I was attracted to abstraction because I had begun to feel more and more that what I wanted to paint was not what I could see, but what I couldn't see. There is a mystery behind things, and that mystery is what I’m always reaching for. When the work goes well, the paint, the canvas, and whatever it is that I bring to the process, combine like elements in a chemical reaction to become something new that is complete within itself. Most of the time my efforts fall short of my intentions, and the elation I feel when I finish a piece is short-lived. Pretty soon I just have to get back to work and chase the mystery again.