From the series "talking to myself again"
I’m struggling for words about the “word” paintings, I guess they should speak for themselves.
They are just a form of writing on the wall, a way of being very honest and exposing my thoughts, but always with the option to write over. The directness matters, it is me unprocessed, there is nothing planned, the words just appear and I just paint them as they come out. They are not careful, carefulness becomes a frustration, it dilutes things.
But the words are also paintings, they have layers and history and the feeling of decaying graffiti found on a wall. Maybe I am a poet with no language except that of paint and these paintings have become a way to speak. The work is very personal, but that makes it richer. I have found a freedom in being able to say exactly what I want, the words may be buried, but they are still there underneath, they have been said.