I paint for the same reason I read a good novel: to find out what happens, and to enjoy the complexity of that unraveling. When I begin a painting, I start with something both accidental and familiar—a few colors, some shapes or planes, the memory of a tangled pile of laundry or the way sunlight moved through my grandmother’s apartment. These colors and shapes initiate a process in which I discover unintended proximities and relationships, finding logic and meaning in the unique situation that emerges. For me, beauty is bound up with accumulation and time and the necessity of change. As I work, I rearrange and reassemble elements and make myriad adjustments to them. Eventually, the confusion of relationships slipping out of balance begins to create new structures. Accidents and change remain visible as my process brings me closer to and more distant from the friction between intention and coincidence, subtle forces that shape my understanding of being in the world.