I find myself suspicious of most marks as soon as they hit the surface of the painting. In response, most are immediately, or over time, redacted or softened in some way—the painting becomes a layered history of steps and missteps, an uncanny conversation with my own id. Much of this dialogue exists in the tension between atmospheric color, form, and the unpredictable variations borne out of erasure and editing. What comes out on the canvas is a soup of visual triggers that I am unknowingly and daily cataloging: an abandoned banana peel, a sunbaked bumper sticker, an awkward tile job, yesterday’s sunrise, or my children’s drawings. As these symbols become modified and amended, the resulting pocks, scratches, and coverups build to a textured surface that announces its own history and allows for the viewer’s own interpretive response.