The first time I threw paint, I was a year into my darkest hour. Years of mediocre living had turned me into a walking emotional callous, thick and hard like basalt rock. In order to feel again I broke rules, and vows, and contracts, and wedding china, until my callous was filed down to raw skin that stung and hurt so good. It was during this time, that I threw streams of paint at canvases and practiced messing up until I realized the layers of paint that hugged the canvases like a straitjacket, produced images and shapes that required a sort of lifting up. Often these shapes take the form of the female body and visage, posed to both take on and embrace the world around her. Other times, the piece remains abstract. Every time, the final composition takes on a life of its own.
This process of the inanimate becoming organic fascinates me. If I get out of my own way – out of It’s way – the series of mistakes I’ve made on purpose are resurrected into something sacred and alive.