Even DNA Has a Face
2003

30"x36"
Needlepoint

Art Statement for Open Studios, October 2002

I'm fascinated by what's not there in the world unless you look at it in a certain way. Fleeting images caused by light, reflection, and refraction. While a building exists in its structural concreteness, the reflection of that building in the windshield of a passing bus is something pulled from our dreams. The light of a flickering candle brings the colors out of the surrounding environment when seen through the cut of a whiskey glass. Water perhaps defines this idea: while a physical, tangible object, it always moves and changes, altering what's around it in its surface. These reflections of verrtical and horizontal lines, while rigid in physical reality, bend and break all boundaries when looked at this way.

My paintings, with their immense textures and organic shapes, hopefully cause a doubletake, maybe a different kind of viewing from far away and up close. At a distance, the main themes are all about color and shape -- both of which can be found in the world if the world is looked at in a certain way. I don't paint forests but if you look closely, you might be able to see the pattern of a vein of a leaf within that forest. Up close, the texture of the paint trumps the shape of the object, breaking down the painting to a focus on the paint itself. Folds and waves, craters and peaks -- oil paint is, by its nature, organic and within its fundamental makeup has characteristics all its own. I try to combine how I see the world and how oil paint fundamentally exists.

My mom has been doing needlepoint for some 25 years. She taught me at a young age but the monotony of it caused me to lose interest as an energetic kid. As I've gotten older and developed an artistic style, I noticed that the precision of needlepoint could work very well with my style. We collaborated on a few pieces and I then began doing my own. They are very time-intensive and meditative. And they also encourage viewing from afar and from up close.

I throw myself into my paintings when I work, choosing usually to work on the floor rather than on an easel or against a wall. Since the detail is fairly intense -- and possibly obsessive (well, definitely obsessive) -- I almost throw myself into each one. By the time I'm finished, I have paint on my arms, under my nails, my hands are stained, my face has random streaks, and, at rare times, I find a cheap way to color my hair.

Lastly, I have always hated the idea that ìfine artî is defined by a velvet rope, a hands-off approach, a barrier between the piece and the audience. I encourage people to touch my paintings, to play with the puzzles, to close the distance between themselves and what's in front of them. It's art, it's colorful, it's fun. Creativity is supposed to be fun. We always encourage children to explore the world around them by touching but when we get older, we tend to put value on that which we're not allowed to touch. I think that's wrong. There are enough rules for us to follow already. Art isn't supposed to have any. So touch, explore, play, share, talk -- enjoy my pieces. I hope they bring some color to your day.

Oh, and I hate white space. Can't stand it. White walls in apartments, white canvas, blank sides of buildings: such a waste of a good place to color.