I am, like many of us today, an observer. Occasionally I comment. The observations take the form of paintings, of irony, pathos, ridicule, or escapism. Realizing these notions takes some structure of thought and action. Yet talking about it is near to the edge of futility. And so many people, namely collectors and gallery folks, want me to talk about the work. (Painting has its own language, and my art increasingly has its own personal language–a visual one.) Picasso said it is not the intent of the artist people are interested in, but the actual doing of a thing. For me, the statements I make in paint, (or any medium for that matter), must be sufficiently intriguing to deserve visual articulation. Don’t ask me what intriguing means. It changes from day to day, but in this quarter, there is no more interest in the fluff, the dust bunnies of human experience, unless that trifle yields a sigh of appreciation for life and this world we inhabit together. The rest is detritus.