The first step is always the hardest. It is as if the staircase initiates with a platform of nails and continues as such:
Rough starts make for sloppy seconds, perhaps.
Though I have painted for a number of years now, with varied successes and failures, and I’ve maintained some sort of creative presence in the world for awhile, I am unofficially committing to more recognition, criticism, platforms of nails, splashings of peroxide, and hopefully, silken pillows of success. Anyone, particularly artists, who say they are doing it to make art and it’s statement are liars. No one is exempt from humanity no matter how misanthropic, and deep down we all want love, adulation, and money. Throngs of fans who want to sleep with me as well will also suit my megalomania.
In all seriousness, obsession with image, concept, and process have been with me through my whole life. It predated any conscious artistic desire and perhaps part of it are learned familial habits. Regardless, the drive within me to express these feelings and experiences I process throughout my existence has become too great and too clear to be silent and reserved anymore. Like a tagger to concrete I must make my mark to feel satisfied.