A garage sale purchase of vintage striped bedsheets from the 1970s affected me in an unexpected way: the rich colors and repetitive patterns triggered a synesthetic response, recalling my earliest memories of space, light and movement, and a childhood when sleep came easily, long before the pull of electronic media. The stripes conveyed order and beauty, and a depth of references including the history of geometric abstract painting, the measurements of and fluctuations within human and geological time, and the way people stack and pile to process the everyday glut of items in their lives.
In my paintings, I stack layers of color, and discover and transform flat aspects of the stripes into dimensional passages. I paint and repaint, position and reposition, led by a neural, even counterfactual gravitation for new outcomes, as one contingency initiates the need for another.
As I work, I’m interested in how responsive actions eventually reveal structures and how a cycle of accumulation, rupture, and shift opens up a new syntax. That language emerges as bright, flat areas are abraded and interrupted by the static of paint drips and stains; layers change color and size; and an urgency arises to conjure up supports and prosthetics to prop up or balance the whole. The paintings materialize out of a friction between intention and coincidence, much like the daily processing and deciphering required to be in the world.