Painting is a bizarre and magical affair. It tears channels between what I think I know, and what I wish to know about the world; between where I am, and where I imagine being. There are things that speak to me without words, and often without warning: the history of a World War ll bomber; the dreamworld of my dog. They lure me (when I least expect) into new personal dialogues and insights, revealing ways to cope with what I don't understand, and ways to be a happier person.
On painting airplanes: The B-17 was an American bomber flown over Europe in WWll. The ten crewmen operated in incredibly cramped spaces, exposed to air temperatures of - 40 degrees for up to ten hour flights. They flew thousands at a time, swarming wing tip to wing tip. One out of every three B-17s perished before its crew could complete 25 missions and return to the states.
While honing a lens on this experience, I allow two inconceivable magnitudes to battle before me: the alien expanse of aerial space, and the personal terror of combat. Painting this sublime arena in which the B-17s flew plucks a strange and primitive chord. It keens my senses to parts of the world I am bound to, but do not understand. These historical paintings are revisited out of context, in a dreamworld with no chronology. A place where inspiration comes less from peoples stories, and more from a swimming blue whale, or a silent white space pod from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
On painting dogs: Dogs are animals that are supposed to live outside but instead they live in your house. They will look at you in a way that is half deer, half human. We have an arrangement for some reason. My dog dreams constantly, with her eyes open, and limbs trembling vigorously. I often wonder about the state of dogs before and after death, before and after sleep. Not so much other animals.