My work consistently bestrides the opposing positions of slack versus tight, exclusive versus banal, triumphant versus defeated, precise versus chaotic, micro versus macro, and cheery versus spooky. Some of the paintings depict strings of flags flying aloft one moment and then nettled in an unruly mound the next. Lines are pulled taught and then abruptly (apathetically? disappointedly?) left flaccid. Fastidiously detailed drawings are eclipsed by an impulsively thrown hand holding a big paintbrush full of cheap paint. Spaces feel simultaneously cavernous and claustrophobic. Moods swing from manic (hot pink razzle-dazzle stripes, piles of first place blue ribbons, faint traces of glitter) to depressed (ambiguously shaped black scaly masses, one lone string curling the floor, an overturned cardboard box). In many instances, "good enough" is perfect.

My studio practice involves no hierarchical charts of materials, methodologies or deliverables. The cardboard fruit box I keep the painting in might have just as great a chance of making a show as the painting itself (in fact, it did). I’ll spend weeks on a “grand” painting, but then have the same satisfaction from placing an oily bakery bag next to a blue gardening cushion. Some of my most carefully detailed works on fine paper look best when overlapped by trash. Some of my stuff belongs on the floor. Putting a raw material, like cardboard packaging, next to a labored-over painting is at once fresh, obvious, laid-back, timeless, historical, and complete. It makes the line between Art and Real Life a little foggier. It feels like when frayed jeans effortlessly make an otherwise expensive outfit sing. My personal history, in relation to my feelings about transience, immediacy, and achievement, has made this attraction to ambiguity especially relevant.