Deep in the grass things are lost or abandoned, and often completely forgotten. A web of tangled stalks and leaves, cane grass is a repository of things decomposing and sprouting: a place with hidden secrets and relics: keys, spirits, handcuffs, discarded masks, etc. It is both a junkyard and nursery of emotional voices: Ooooooo, Noooo, Yessss - possibly the sounds of sex, or near death. Our discarded masks: the wife, the lover, the teacher, jealousy, desire, the son: the multitude of faces we assume and leave behind. Forgotten saints.Underground there is the sound of those asleep: Zzzzzzz.  

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Frozen clock faces, or ones with no hands.  Dr. Suess was right. Cruising in the tall fields. Faces of men with intent: a transactional world of $$. Animals and men. This physical plane. Floating with bones in my mouth.

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My work has always been concerned with the intersection of nature and culture.  Having lived through the AIDS epidemic feels like a warm up for the time we are living in.  Moving to the middle of the Pacific has allowed me make art in a more intuitive manner.

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Paradox feels natural and a bit more humorous.  Age has allowed me to seek things unfamiliar and allow simpler explanations.  Fear and ecstatic states are interesting but they come and they go.  Everything is not what it looks like.

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I am not going quietly.