Instead of feeling like the creator of my pieces, I feel my work pushed itself out of me like a living thing that, once it found an outlet, poured out in in an expression of colorful chaos. I’m sure I share the feeling that i’m constantly filled with a certain barely controlled commotion. Our world is a feverish and ever-accelerating barrage of stimulus and I feel my art is, at once, a reflection of what’s inside and a therapeautic tool for dealing with the external forces in my world. In a way, my works were born from a desire to preserve something that was meant to be completely disposable. The medium I used would otherwise inevitably be destroyed or buried. Even in digital form, these images would stop being circulated and some only still live on in our fading memories. Like people, these pictures have an inconspicuous depth and it takes time and scrutiny to dig out the treasures that hide within us all.