This self portrait has had many lives. It started as an automatic drawing on a left over canvas borrowed from my brother’s studio. It then got attacked by a spray can. Finally, frustrated, I attempted to paint a self portrait in oil. Having a brother who is a painter, I often find myself listening to him speak at great lengths about “place” and “relational aesthetics”. I don’t know what these things are.

A powerful experience was viewing Picasso’s La Demoiselle d’Avignon while visiting MoMA. My brother told me it was about prostitutes. I’m unsure about that.
I just like the way that the figures seem to be masked and drowning in a sea of pink and blue. I guess I’d call myself an outsider as a painter, but what I’m trying to say is, we don’t all need to speak the language to pick up a brush.