An admission—that I am a disorganized, impulsive person—reads more optimistically on canvas because the eye has glimpsed the edge. I navigate the visual by visceral means, colliding impressions of points with interpretations of space (the accidentals are debris) so that the composition hangs, almost magically, in mid-air.

I feel like I’m tight rope walking a curve, always catching up to the next inch of information coming from whatever way over-saturated image I’m referencing. It makes the brush run.