My experiences within big institutions, whether in finance, education, government, or beyond, have exposed me to the inefficiencies and bureaucratic bloat that often prioritize power over purpose. Innovation or doing the right thing can get buried under layers of self-interest and red tape. There's a rage against the machine vibe in my work, a pushback against systems that stifle rather than support. I channel this into my art. I'm not interested in telling a specific story but rather capturing the tension and pressure that come from living within these flawed systems.

Clyfford Still's influence on my work goes beyond his bold, jagged forms, it's also about his approach and ethos. Still was fiercely independent, sticking to his morals and higher vision of his artwork. His introverted nature and focus on raw, unfiltered expression inspire me to dig deep and let my art speak for itself. Rauschenberg's eclectic combinations push me to blend unexpected elements, while Rembrandt and Raphael guide my use of light, shadow, and composition. In my glitch art, these influences blend into a dialogue between traditional and contemporary, where the tension of the past meets the fractured nature of the present.

It's a bit of both instinct and deliberate adjustment. I usually start with a core instinct, something that feels right in the moment, and then refine as I go, allowing the piece to evolve naturally. The narrative isn't always fixed from the beginning; it builds as new focal points emerge, and I adjust the glitch elements to highlight these evolving aspects. The key is finding that sweet spot where the chaos doesn't overwhelm but instead draws the viewer in to explore the details and layers.

Glitch art is perfect for exposing the fragility and unpredictability of our systems, it reflects the imperfections beneath the surface. It's a visual representation of how easily things can fall apart, capturing the thin line between order and chaos. I lean into glitch because it mirrors the disruptions in our lives and institutions, allowing me to express those tensions in a way that feels honest and raw.

"Do You Remember" started almost whimsically, a play on the band name Earth, Wind & Fire. The initial idea was lighthearted, just windmills in an open field. But as I worked on it, my subconscious began steering the piece into more politically charged territory. The windmills, initially innocent, started to embody political figures, reflecting the stagnation and dysfunction in today's climate policies. The moment I decided to set the left windmill on fire, it became symbolic of the Democratic Party's implosion, a foreshadowing of Joe Biden's downfall, made even more poignant when he withdrew from the presidential race just days after the piece was completed.

The title "Do You Remember" emerged naturally, merging Biden's cognitive decline with the nostalgic hit song, adding a layer of irony and cultural relevance. Each step of creating this piece felt like unlocking a new layer of meaning, what began as a casual play on words evolved into a sharp commentary on political frailty and cultural memory. The symbols aren't just visual elements; they capture a specific moment in time, blending past and present into a narrative that invites viewers to reflect on the chaotic intersection of politics, culture, and personal recollection.

I approach institutions with a sense of skepticism because of how their pursuit of power often complicates and disrupts the human experience. But it's not just about distrust; it's about examining how these structures shape our world and the impact they have on what we value. HIGHER POWER reflects this complexity, it's less about condemning institutions outright and more about questioning the systems we place our trust in and how they've influenced our sense of stability and purpose. The work looks at both the damage caused and the delicate balance of order they strive to maintain, pushing viewers to reflect on the interplay between control and chaos.

Ambiguity and distortion are tools to provoke curiosity. I don't want viewers to feel lost, but I do want them to explore and find their own meaning within the chaos. The instability in my work is designed to challenge perceptions, encouraging people to look closer, question, and engage with the underlying themes. It's less about making them uncomfortable and more about sparking a personal exploration.

I often use nature to ground my work and remind viewers of what's real and unchanging. There's a pull towards getting back to our roots, appreciating the natural world amid the synthetic chaos of modern life. In HIGHER POWER, nature represents a kind of authenticity and beauty that contrasts sharply with the instability and artificial constructs of contemporary culture. It's about highlighting what's been lost in our pursuit of power and control, pushing viewers to consider how returning to what's natural might offer some semblance of balance in an otherwise chaotic world.

I'm naturally drawn to earthy tones, but the colors often evolve as the piece takes shape. Some works demand a more intense color scheme to capture the mood I'm aiming for. It's about finding the right balance to amplify the emotional impact, using color to highlight the fragility or power within a scene. I don't overthink it; I let the colors speak to the themes and adjust until it feels right.

My work connects with people on different levels, and I've found that audiences tend to gravitate towards pieces that resonate with their own experiences. There's something special about that connection, like a piece of me finding a piece of them. I try to be as honest as possible in my work, pushing myself to explore deeper parts of my psyche. Seeing viewers have their own unique experiences with my art reinforces my desire to keep digging into my consciousness, though I wouldn't say it's reshaped my approach; it just confirms that there's value in pushing those boundaries.