If my painting career began in graffiti, my fine art is a neat foil for it — bearing more than a passing resemblance to “the buff” — the grey and brown municipal graffiti coverups that are an art of their own.
I’m obsessed with materials, technique, and texture. They are some of the first creative choices I make.
In my studio, you’ll find more mark-making tools — discontinued aerosol paint, chalk, stamping ink, paint sticks — than formal art supplies. They’re unpredictable, raw, and challenging to work with, and that influences everything I make and how. At times, the work feels like solving chemical problems as much as, you know, painting. Taming tough materials into a small space. Starting with a clean, light-colored surface and making it dirty again.
I consider my fine art to be responsive, imbued with a gauziness and melancholy that comes with memory. Most often, it’s an overlooked or unattended place, the kind that otherwise might not be considered at all. I’m inspired by the natural and the build environments, and especially taken by scenes where the two are in harmony or conflict.
Recently, I’ve grown interested in adding some figurative work to my repertoire.
