Each room holds one body of work. Walk in.
Some days I'm at the easel painting a creek bank the way I actually saw it — the light, the rocks, the water moving — and other days I'm gluing a broken fan housing to a scrap of plexiglass until it starts to look like a face. Both of those are the same impulse to me: paying close attention to something, then trying to get it right.
A lot of my work starts from looking. The landscapes come from places I've actually lived — Arkansas, Vermont, Nevada, wherever we ended up next — painted the way they appeared, without much editorializing. The still lifes work the same way: a stack of books becomes an excuse to solve a problem of color and structure, one spine against another.
But I've also always been drawn to the loose end of things — to humor, to found objects, to the idea that a discarded toy or a piece of broken plastic has a second life in it if you look at it sideways. That side of my work owes a real debt to the California Funk movement, where craft and joke were never enemies. A birdbath covered in peace signs, a face built out of two black triangles and a hardware clip, an etching so dense with hidden faces you have to hunt for them — these come from the same place as the landscapes, just aimed at play instead of observation.
Titles matter to me. So does line — whether it's the fine cross-hatching of an etching plate or a felt-tip marker moving fast across paper. I don't think of myself as having one style so much as one habit: noticing something, then not letting it go until I've made something out of it.