I fight myself from piece to piece, make mistakes, make shit life decisions, hate myself, hate my work, throw it away and start over - constantly moving from media to medium with a pendulum compulsion fueled by impulse, anxiety, delusions, and dreams. I never quite feel like I work hard enough, complex enough, political enough, ‘pop’ enough, large enough, detailed enough, abrasive enough, subtle enough - I am not enough. This burning, seething distaste for everything I am and all I’ve created drives me insane until I start making something again, fall in love with a new and interconnected process to all that came before, feel a purpose larger than my own mundane existence for a moment. Somehow, each series of pieces becomes larger and more holistic than the last, like I’m clinging to this vague hope that eventually, that elusive ‘great work’ might be the ‘Enough’ to swallow this self doubt that has echoed down generations whole.

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