What do you do when there's a naked lady lying in your bed? Can you make coffee, read the paper? Can you get up and go to work while she's there? That's the situation when I see an image, a painting in my head. I stand paralyzed. What do I do with this naked lady? Can I walk away? Not happily. I'd speak of a naked man, but the analogy loses something in gender specificity. In any case, I'm gripped by that gaze and the flesh flash that comes with it. It's one of monsters whispering in my ear, islands carved out of the currents, my children bursting developmental seams, my boyfriend changing his shirt. This is the stuff of sainthood. This is what I paint. When the lady lays, I can only lean into a fresh canvas, brush gobbed with blended primaries, and spill images. I'd like to say there's a method to their flow, but a bank errand is generally no worse than a temple rub at bringing them on. These pictures may or may not fit into a scheme. They're what I know, and it's my job to clothe them.
