To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
–Samuel Beckett

Nothing will ever replace painting, because nothing makes a mess like paint. It oozes and stains, drips and streaks, fades, chips, and permeates. Logic gives way to intoxicating color. Paint refuses to abandon its illusions almost as stubbornly as it refuses to be consistent in its lies.

I paint because I am drawn to messiness. It fascinates me. I swoon when I see a gracious accident on the easel, but I have a perverse respect for the truth I see in graceless clumsiness. I revel in inconsistencies and can’t make myself fix them or cover them up.

We are living in a shit show. Technology brings the id of the whole world to a tiny screen so that you can hold it in your hands as you fall asleep each night. My family and friends are plagued with nightmares.

I take a brush to whatever vexes me. Paint is the form that accommodates the mess.