It has been about ten years now since I started to paint seriously. I have tried a lot of methods, materials, surfaces, styles, etc., but nothing compares to pure, unadulterated, abstract expressionism.
It seems somewhat odd, although predictable, that I would at this time resort to what I consider the real roots of my visual existence. Back then, as now, I was at a place in life, where some goals, and hopes where attained. I was newly married, had a good job, riding my skateboard and getting flowed product for it...but there was a yearning for something real and more. I slowly let my passion that kept me up well past a comfortable bed time, fall by the way-side. Although those nights spent listening to music, painting away my anxieties as my then pregnant wife rest, were some of the most powerful moments for me, I somehow let other things become more important.
A couple years later, I sat as a bystander watching my life crumble away. No wife, no house, no job, no more father. I was still drawing a little here and there, but not really doing anything at all. As these circumstances became a more and more inescapable reality, I found a new way to let go of the pain. It was then, that Failure was born.
While I was stealing people's hearts on the streets around Texas, I started to paint furiously. Although, the canvases became found wood, smooth linen, trashed-out doors, it didn't matter. There was a fury of emotion to unload, and although the same textures would kick start the party, they were soon covered in gestural compositions, and figurative boasting of a strong, black line of cartoon imagery.
But these days, I find my heart leading me back to a familiar place. I paint more than ever, to release the most of myself as I can, and I find myself wanting to let go of images and concentrate on the blank white space.