It's bound to be clichés, my statement about my "process": or a statement of the obvious. My "process" is a dialogue between eye, hand, and media; an interaction with the paper, board, with form and chaos. One line, one mark leads to another in search of something to delight or intrigue the eye, or the mind. If the graphic worked simply with a single line, that would be marvelous. But my hand is rather haphazard, so more often I wrestle with the drawing until it pleases. When really crude scribbles work as fine representations, I'm tickled pink. But I'm just looking for satisfaction, and that I can't define. The one thing I've learned so far, for the most part, is when to stop.

I paint on plane pine panels because "archival paper" intimidates me. The cheap wooden panels cost as much, but they are cheap panels, so I feel free.

But let me be a little more "intellectual": after all, I am an intellectual. There is form and chaos in the grain of the boards. There is form and chaos in my scribbling draftsman's hand. They talk with each other, and when I'm lucky, they dance.