My studio is filled with scraps. Heaped in stacks of unsorted bins, they are the remnants of over twenty years of making and living.

Survey of the scrap pile:
A doodle-ridden restaurant napkin
A stained worktable covering littered with ambiguous notes
A crusty, psychedelic palette scraping
A scribbled landscape from my kindergarten journal
A used bit of masking tape edged with paint
A large, wadded-up drawing made in a fury one night last summer

When making a mark seems arbitrary or terrifying, I dig through the scraps. I don’t see them as inspiration or keepsakes but as possibilities, despite their rough edges. They become the work itself.

The scrap layers are built in cycles. Careful, sometimes sentimental, arrangement alternates with reckless destruction using paint and a razor. It’s a search for resolution, but the conclusion is never what I expect. By chance or fate, there forms a wonky alignment of intentions and accidents, of past and present: a fresh paint blob on a torn drawing just fits.