I grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles in the San Fernando Valley, where my family had a habit of moving around. Sometimes we’d pack up the house we’d been living in for the last couple of years and start over again in a new house right around the corner. Two years later, we’d do the same thing again. In the ranch-style tract homes we moved around in, one place was much like another. They were all basically the idea of a house.
As I got older, I continued this habit of moving in and out of places to live. By my count, I’ve changed residences at least 25 times since the day I was born. That averages out to once every two years throughout my life.
The images I’ve been exploring in this recent series of paintings and drawings respond to this peripatetic pattern. In a way, I see it as an analog of the American Dream: this is a country that seems to be always climbing out of one thing into another thing that is much like the thing that came before. In some ways, it's the idea of change that matters to us most.
On the other hand, what really interests me about these paintings is the questions they pose while I’m working on them. Are they honest? Do they have integrity? Is there anything extraneous about them? Are they beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel gratuitous? Is there a dissonance that I can I resolve without breaking them?
I find this analogy useful to me: I try to make the paintings as much like music as I can. I follow an underlying structure based on observed reality and the conventions of visual harmony and design. Still, there’s a point where improvisation takes over, and I try to let them be a conduit for the unexpected and the surprising.
When I’m painting, there’s a certain point where I can feel something tugging at me, and I know that’s when I’m close to getting somewhere satisfying. In the end, if it makes sense to my head and heart—if it’s got a groove—that’s what matters most to me.