Owlets cry for food, coyote sirens warn, and frog songs lull me to sleep. A nest of newts is red and sanguine, and a lone mushroom portends the angel of death. I hear a tree fall in the distance.
Eyes open, ears alert, and the forest marks me.
Where language fails, art reigns.
Hokusai envisioned thirty-six views of Mount Fuji, and Cezanne gazed at Mont Sainte-Victoire with fresh energy over sixty times. I, too, am looking for my earthly motif that ranges into the heavens.
I am dreaming of white mountains cast in numberless shades of summer green.
Chinese orthography and primitive art-forms bewitch, and I am drawing towards all that is child-like, animal-like, and angelic.
I sense an artistic responsibility to grasp, process, and re-present our world. This is also my privilege.
I paint quietly and slowly.
My paintings and drawings record direct and repeated observations. Each reiteration of similar motifs marks an increasing intimacy with the world and moves an observational practice closer to a private meditation. My comfort in familiar objects and their spaces manifests in an aging collection of citrus fruit—once-fresh oranges are now desiccated, discolored, misshapen, and hard to the touch; and my desire to escape the mundane impels me toward the uncanny.