First a shaky drawing is made and then lost in a thick daubing of oil paint in the darkest hues. Next a rag is dipped in a jar of Gamsol and I watch it greedily try to uncover the original drawing beneath. Then I watch the painting emerge. The trees (once luscious) are now only the bare bones of winter past. Under a dirty sky, tarry black water ejects bodies and places them in a landscape that is part folk horror part climate catastrophe. There is always an underlying lack of control to my artwork. A point where the medium takes over. No matter how much I want to express my sadness about a dying planet or unhappy marriage, the work takes hold and will draw your attention to what it wants to. My hope is that the viewer can hold their attention long enough to brave the feelings of melancholy (with a dash of bitter hope) that my work hopes to evoke.