The cultural and religious landscape of my native Mississippi is forever ingrained, and this influence has become an allegorical part of my drawing vision. My quirky style is fueled by an abiding interest in insect-like, gestural lines and packed compositions, and these drawings are a union of formal concerns, memory, and narrative. They depict a private, delirious utopia.
Re-purposed washing machines, homemade roller coasters, fifth-hand rockets, and refurbished mechanical bulls are just some of the items that are the raw creative fodder for the dubious characters who operate within my drawings. These characters are inventing, fencing themselves in, making a go of things, thriving. In my imagination, the folks who live in these worlds are embattled creators, sovereign over their respective dwellings, fervent.
While no people are actually visible, there is evidence of frenzied life in the landscapes. There are projects underway, cryptic systems, and still smoldering fires. The natural settings, gnarled trees, and impossible cliffs are also living parts of these systems: they are manipulated and incorporated, often functioning as barriers that contribute to the isolation of each locale.
The fragments and detritus of human endeavor are not exclusive to rural southern landscapes: they are to be found in every place where people exist. I have personally observed plenty in New York, where I have lived for many years, and in other necks of the woods, too. So while my visual language is inescapably rooted in my personal experience, in my southern roots, the drive to order, to systematize, to invent, and to make sense of the nonsensical, and the scattered evidence of this struggle, seems to me a universal human characteristic.