Painting, like language, is a means of communication. It is not a monologue, but a dialogue: first between the artist and the painting, subsequently between the painting and the viewer. Consisting only of pigment in oil on canvas, with enough thought, work, feeling and belief, a painting can become more than the sum of its parts. The mystery of a piece of art is its ability to reach beyond the who, what and how of its making, to engage and challenge, to live. Beyond depiction. Beyond expression. Beyond illusion. The effort of creating belongs to both artist and viewer. Viewing is active. A viewer can choose not to enter into a dialogue with a painting in the same way that we, as people, do not choose to be friends with everyone we meet. However, once a dialogue begins, it is not static. It changes over time, like a relationship maturing.

I begin my paintings without a clear idea of what the ending will be. Sometimes I begin from something I am looking at, and sometimes I don't. Either way, I do not plan in advance, but take my cues from the painting as I work, letting it develop, inserting my ideas as they come, and looking to nature and art history for help. I build up, destroy, and build up again. A painting goes through what is usually an awkward, embarrassing adolescence of trial and error. It changes many times as I search for the final form. This process takes time. I am a quick painter, but a slow thinker. The development of my thought is visible and contributes to surface quality; I do not cover my tracks. In addition, I make some of my own paint by hand in order to obtain a richness that cannot be achieved with commercial paints.

My subject matter comes from the people and places I know, but specific content never takes precedence over the painting as a whole. I work on the entire surface of a picture at once, not in bits. Nothing should be superfluous; there is no concept of background. I think of all my paintings as essentially abstract, no matter how recognizable the content, because it is the muscles and bones of the paintings - the structure - that is most important, not its outer appearance. When I think about structure, the musical form of fugue comes to mind. The many strands of melody twisting together and apart, sometimes harmonious and sometimes dissonant, remind me of the counterpoint of drawing and color, representation and abstraction, tonality and contrast, line and shape, flatness and volume. Putting all of these elements together is a balancing act. The result may feel like the give and take of partners dancing or a stand off between adversaries; whatever the mood, I try to achieve balance without compromising complexity.

Many believe that art is a manifestation of the artist, that the work embodies the person. The French novelist Gustave Flaubert, however, was not one of them. Rather, he strove for his own invisibility and the supremacy of the text. I like this idea. It underscores that the viewer's dialogue is with the painting, not the artist. The language of painting is a visual one. Words are not necessary. Some things must simply be seen.