“I’ve said it before to people who have a romanticized view of the artist and hold creation sacred: In the end, your art doesn’t save you." — Woody Allen

My art is about memory, more specifically about moments in time. It can be a shape or color I saw briefly that stuck in my head. It can be the warmth of the sun on an otherwise forgotten day. It can be something from a dream.

I begin and often end with pastel. But in-between there's acrylic paint, colored pencil, patterns either stenciled or collaged, thick viscous layers of gel medium, more pastel, more paint, more gel medium, more collage.

Then less.

My process is a freewheeling argument between addition and subtraction. I erase and scratch into it. I tear out, glue on, paste over, and reshape it. The work seldom becomes what I imagined it to be, and the scars of what it was are always visible. Near the finish, I might add objects, little Easter eggs for the viewer to find. They might be only a string of tiny beads in a bottom corner to add a pop of color, or a row of inconspicuous tiles for a shot of texture. Lately, I've been letting my objects star in their own productions. They have become fabulously full-blown assemblages that take a place of honor at the center of the work.

I don't know where I'm going with these, but the process is always the same: addition, subtraction, repeat.