I make paintings backwards. Working from behind loose-weave linen, I push oil paint through the fabric so that the image arrives on the viewing side through the obstruction of the canvas. I can't fully see or control what I'm making and information gets lost in transit. Something is added as well: the extruded paint creates a surface that resembles carpet or tapestry, giving the work a tactile allure even as it triggers uncertainty.
The process embodies what the paintings are about. I'm interested in the instability of perception and how that creates barriers to understanding. Acting as both a support and a mesh, my surfaces transmit images and break them apart, at the same time. The images, themselves, are intentionally elusive, too. Subjects are often seen through fences or foliage, or from a surveillance-like viewpoint that provides information without context or discernible narrative.
Before turning fully to painting, I made documentary films and produced television news. That work depended, in part, on the assumption that images could give viewers access to events—that seeing could be a form of knowing. The shortcomings of that assumption became a personal preoccupation, a stand-in for broader cognitive limits, and eventually a foundation for my painting practice.