Somehow I concocted the idea that if I took art classes in college that it would ruin my interest in art. Perhaps I was right, and perhaps not. That was half a life ago. I had been painting since I was twelve, taking lessons and workshops. In college, I befriended people in the BFA program, and knew someone that worked at the campus museum. I went to shows and talked art. It all felt provincial.

    I moved to Washington DC. Every other weekend, I went to the Smithsonian East and West galleries, as well as the Hirschhorn, and others. I made pilgrimages to New York. It was an education. Seeing so much art first hand was different than I imagined from books. Color plates can pass for justice sometimes. I read a lot. That too changed my vision. 

    The current series on which I am working draws from an abiding interest in photographs. There is an indexical quality of photographs: they are light emanating from a subject. I prefer to think that photographs are not diametrically opposed to painting. I know that chafes the grain of history. But thoughts are chaff. I wanted to see if I might create a hybrid that drew on traditions from both. I am not interested in realism as an aesthetic philosophy, but the tone and focus of photos.