I have hungry eyes, and when they are not busy devouring the colored world before me, my brain is busy cutting, rearranging, shaping, structuring, fusing, painting, drawing, dreaming, and grouping, the beauty and chaos in this complicated world.
An introduction becomes a makeover, a face becomes a caricature, a body a sculpture, a smile a landscape, trees swaying in the breeze, a ballet. Then when my brain finds all this input too overwhelming it shuts down and begins to count, 56, 57, 58, 59 and so it goes.
I confess, I’m a visual consumer, attracted to graffiti, fetish icons, african art, architecture, subliminal shortcuts in advertising and motion picture editing. I’m fascinated by the way film editing can have rushes of contrasting ideas and imagery that induce a multitude of emotions in a matter of moments.
The narrator of my work will say how much I love the irony and wit conveyed in the fashionable New York subculture. That my paintings are a playful schizophrenic blend of contrasting ideas and artistic styes, relating a story composed of poured colors, geometric curvaceous shapes, large brush strokes and freudian, dream-like sketches. But to me, they are much more. They are my children, they are my soul, they are my urban hieroglyphics.
Art is my narcotic of choice.