I often work in a very procedural way. There are clearly delineated steps that define how a work comes to life. For instance, I’ll typically start with a sheet of Yupo paper. Then, working with acrylic or spray enamel, I begin addressing that field in a very informal and intuitive way.

Next, I’ll take one or two of the shapes I’ve pre-cut and start looking for ways to exploit the color and light in the initial field. I begin painting the shape with a sense of how best to push contrast, color vibration, or temperature. Since I usually have several different shapes cut out, I can try multiple options.

Once a shape is painted, I lay it on the initial field and adjust as necessary. Because all of the elements are independent, it’s easy to experiment with different possibilities.

Once I land on something satisfying, I incorporate the stitched thread, which functions as a delicate graphic or line element that would otherwise be missing from the work. It’s also the slowest part of the process—and when that’s done, I know the work is finished.

Initially, I used basic geometric shapes to simplify my visual language down to its most primary elements. I wanted the work to be highly accessible—clear and explicit. I aimed to alleviate any profound or obstructive sense of mystery. At the time, I was also working primarily with cut, inlaid, and layered paper—not pigment at all. I saw this project as directly linked to the kind of play children engage in when they’re first beginning to make pictorial and visual associations through color and shape.

My collages now feature—almost exclusively—a very specific shape. I began thinking about the rounded rectangle first as the defining form of computer monitors, phones, and iPads, but it also has a much longer history. It originally entered our technology-saturated lives as an ergonomic design choice—a shape meant to feel safe, approachable, and humane. Over time, however, it has evolved into something far more pernicious: an insistent psychological lure that perpetuates our dependence. Its comfortable softness lowers our defenses, its universality cements its authority, and its endless glow hypnotizes us into prolonged attention. In this sense, the “friendly” frame of modern devices mirrors society’s fixation on digital screens. What appears harmless and inviting reveals itself to be the perfect vessel for immersion, distraction, and addiction.

When used in my work, the shape suggests a window, but it can also appear bloated—filling the space and ultimately suffocating the environment. Even though the formats are repeated and standardized, I hope the works fluctuate between being highly charged and chaotic and peacefully meditative.

In my effort to reduce the possibility that everything in a piece is entirely resolved or fully revealed—without secrets or mysteries—I sometimes leave paper clips and thread visible. These elements suggest that they are essential to the construction or "joinery" of one part of the composition to another. Whether or not they are actually holding anything together is less important than the implication. I like to imagine that an edge secured by a large paper clip might suggest a part of the work that is not yet fixed, mounted, or permanent—something that could still shift or change.

The use of thread and stitching serves a slightly different purpose. Many of my recent collages include soft, blurry, spray-painted fields, and within that context, a stitched line appears crisp and sharply defined. It introduces a compelling pictorial illusion of advancing and receding space. These lines—stitched entirely by hand—also represent an archaic, deliberately slow act, which stands in stark contrast to the speed and diffusion of the spray-painted marks. That tension between precision and fluidity is something I find both interesting and meaningful.

In addition to the conversations and collaborations I have with the artists I work with, my greatest passion is installing the work. I love determining how the pieces can best engage in dialogue with the space and architecture of the room, and how to make the most effective use of light in relation to the work. I’m deeply invested in finding the right sense of pacing—honoring the artist’s intentions while still creating a sense of drama, movement, and rhythm throughout the exhibition. Installation is, by far, my favorite part of curating.

Although I love working with other artists on exhibitions, perhaps the main way curating feeds my own practice is through the way I build a composition—from disparate elements brought together into a cohesive whole. The organization of those elements can determine the success of a work. In a sense, I curate the essential parts of an image, shaping them into something both harmonious and rigorous. I seek the same qualities in the exhibitions I develop and present.

When I’ve shown work in Europe, I’m always struck by how deeply audiences engage with the art—far more so than I’ve typically experienced in the U.S. This has been especially true in Germany, where viewers tend to look closely, ask challenging questions, and genuinely try to assess whether my intentions are fully realized in the work they're seeing.

For an artist, that kind of engagement is a profound gift. When someone begins to notice how the history of making—the visible process, decisions, and revisions—reveals something essential about what the final piece communicates, I can’t ask for more. That level of attention and curiosity is incredibly rewarding.

There’s a painting by Matisse from 1926 called Lemons on a Pewter Plate that taught me how to build a painting like a well-oiled engine. It’s constructed from carefully selected parts that come together seamlessly to power an experience for the viewer—one that feels in perpetual motion.

The ingredients of the painting appear familiar: patterned fabric, still life props, a table. But the way they function within the composition is extraordinary. There’s an incredible tension between the upper and lower halves of the canvas that emphatically drives the eye to move. The bottom half is settled, stable, and calm; the upper half is like a rave—loud, unruly, frenetic.

This dichotomy is the painting’s primary formal mechanism. But what’s most intriguing is a small, dark sliver on the left-hand side that reveals a space behind the main subject. This is the opening Matisse leaves for the viewer to imagine and project into. There’s a deep mystery in that space that’s never fully resolved—unlike every other part of the painting.

The clarity and objectivity of 90% of the image is powered by the significance of that remaining 10%. It’s the not-knowing that fills us with wonder and desire.

Mostly what I've learned is how to be fearless. I'm continually moved by how willing they are to go to the absolute edge with their work, pushing it beyond any preconceived expectation in order to discover something new. Bravo to them!

Always follow through—promptly and thoroughly. Be respectful and true to your word. Make every professional encounter a pleasurable and satisfying experience for all involved. Be kind, be generous and be thankful. Grace and generosity are often valued more highly than talent. As an artist, you’re doing what you love; show your appreciation for that life often and to anyone—or any institution—that has helped you along the way or continues to support your choices. Ditch your phone for long periods of time; there’s a world out there full of incredible sensory experiences that you’ll never have in front of a five-inch screen.

I think that's a great question, but I have to say that I wish they wouldn't bother asking me anything and just take in the work without any framework/thoughts/intentions from me. I think the work I make can be a perfect vehicle upon which to project one's own thoughts and experiences. I really don't want to get in the way of that.

This may be clichéd, but I believe that looking at the spaces between things in the world can reveal some of the most rewarding shapes and forms. I learned this from both Matisse and Ellsworth Kelly. When you look at Kelly’s sketchbook drawings, preparatory collages, and his quotidian photographs, you can see how he observed—and exploited—the shapes created by objects in a space.

As someone who teaches painting to young artists, I encourage them to work with negative space: to identify and energize the areas surrounding their main subject. The work tends to become stronger when the surrounding space is given as much consideration as the “main” subject—if not more.

I’ve experienced long fallow periods in the studio, and they can be deeply discouraging. Doubt creeps in—nothing feels good enough, smart enough, cool enough. Boredom sets in. All the bad feels.

Even when I’m not actively producing work, my mind is quietly turning over ideas, slowly working through possibilities that might eventually lead to something worth exploring. I’ve learned not to force the process. With time, I’ve come to trust my own rhythms and accept that there will always be both slow stretches and intensely productive periods—and that, in the end, they often balance each other out.

This past year, for example, has been incredibly productive for me. That’s due in part to the parameters I’ve set for the work, but also to the introduction of new materials and processes that have reignited my love for painting. It's been a good stretch; I'm looking forward to that continuing.

I'd love to become a more adept and skilled woodworker. I don't have a shop at the moment, but I'm in the process of building a studio at my country place in Wisconsin. I hope a good wood shop will be part of the final plan.