Long before I was born my greatgrandfather was a lawman. One day when transporting a prisoner to be deported from the country, the man, handcuffed to my greatgrandfather, leaped from the train, tearing off my greatgrandfather’s arm.
I knew what painting was before I knew there was art. The first painting I remember was a picture of a clown on black velvet in the basement. This object seemed to turn the space into a terrifying void. Once I learned that there was art, I always heard that I should have such feelings about it.
I make caveman art with paper. I aspire to make allegories despite never understanding them.
I am inspired by a fragmentary understanding of German philosophy and a complete understanding of Judas Priest records played backwards.
I am motivated by the prospect of feeling like Manet.
My pictures are inspired by old freemen who roam the forest and country, a bloody arm dangling from their wrists, and graven images of clowns who terrify and tempt from their exiled spaces. My ideal is an object that will operate outside of any notion of art. I cast myself as Anti-Oedipus in an allegory against interpretation.