It is both facile and impossible to verbally explain my work. If I could, I wouldn’t make art, I’d write. These images grow before me, often evolving from sketches. They touch areas of my life that I find crucial, such as death, time, love and boredom, but they are by no means themed. I am constantly surprised by what I produce, and then ultimately disappointed. In the end, I make art for myself through a compulsion to once again try to understand the ununderstandable.