I don’t know how I got here, wanting to be an artist. I remember wanting to be an architect and then not wanting to be an architect. I paint from observation, and like many artists, I meditate on time and the quality of light, and like a demiurge I construct worlds of misfit objects: a ball of tape from when I was a carpenter building dildo displays for a sex toy convention; a plastic pot with a warped rim; a counterfeit $10 bill, wrinkled and stained; a block of marble; a canvas with an unfinished drawing; a rock from the coast; a T-shirt faded and worn; a coconut from the side of the road; a leather glove on a severed hand; a Nike shoe coated in plaster; a lemon; a small watermelon; a fork from Chipotle. They are not special but rather exactly what they are—objects from life. When I paint, I sit with the objects and experience without touching, feeling but not feeling. Feeling the inside of a glove feeling.