I see these paintings as excerpts from stories; pages torn from books that have not yet been written. They are populated both by people engaged in activities of looking: eyes peering, fingers reaching out to touch and the objects they find. The paintings talk back and forth with each other across a shared landscape. For me the subject and the process of making the work are the same. As I search though my own mind, culling from the images and experiences of my life, the paintings search through their own images looking for meaning in the mash up.

Each image is a word, each word a part of some larger tale. The smallest unit of measure in language is the phoneme, or brick of sound. What are the smallest indivisible pieces of a story? Here: a gesture? An isolated object? The sky? If all stories are like matter, neither created nor destroyed, in constant use, it is human nature to look for understanding where it can never be achieved. One person’s gesture is another’s sky, another’s sky an object.

I try to fix a point in an ever-changing universe, to stop time, to find truth where there is none. My daughter is two. She is dying of cancer. She walks in a parallel universe where she shoulders such things and yet finds a way to connect. The world of these paintings lies somewhere beyond our own and yet could not exist without ours. They hold hands across gaps of understanding, they are ribbons of meaning in the void.