Your art has an articulated aesthetic, resembling a stream of consciousness. What does creating represent for you? Is it a way to psychoanalyse yourself and the surrounding world?

My whole endeavor does function, in some part, as a form of psychological echolocation. It’s a reactionary process, allowing the work to avoid stagnation. As far back as I can remember, I’ve had an obsessive relationship with impermanence and death. That’s bled over into my relationship to objects. I have this strong memory from my childhood when I was four or five. I was in a field by myself playing with a paper-doll I had made. It was an invented character (some sort of lizard warrior), and I was totally enamored by it. Suddenly, I stopped and stared at this flimsy paper in my hands and understood very sharply that although I loved it now, it would mean nothing to me in the future. The happiness it gave me was fleeting, maybe even artificial. That sentimental shedding has informed the way I work today, studio practice as an evasion of the lows from dwelling too long. In that way the creative process is all about trying to push forward, to grow and keep my energy constantly moving.

Your works have a very vibrant visual impact, with vivid colours and numerous prominent elements. At the same time, they convey deep, sometimes dark and melancholic concepts. Do you identify with these contrasts? Would you like to experiment with something different from what you’ve produced so far?

Those are important polarities to me; that sensation of the sun shining but still being sad or laughing when you’re scared or nervous. I think it stems from growing up with depression and constantly overcompensating socially to mask it. When I started making work that double sensibility starting to show up naturally. I got out of the way and let that side of myself evolve in the work. I believe a genuine experience develops when viewing work that presents conflicting or crooked paths; narrative through-lines that start to negate or confuse their own psychology. Measuring those moods against a visually bright disposition exercises some tension that gives the work a, undercurrent of “unreliable narrator”. Maybe that subversion dismantles first impressions or opens someone up to understanding the work better, who knows. It seems to be a quality that works with my personality and visual vocabulary. I can see it becoming obnoxious or gimmicky as time goes on, but as long as it feels sincere to me, I don’t see forcing a change.

At first glance, your creations bring to mind surrealism. Is it an aesthetic you feel connected to, or is there another type of art that particularly inspires you?

I don’t feel super connected to the banner of surrealism, but I can acknowledge “surreal” aspects have taken root in what I’m doing. I try to work within the logic of the work and not the logic of the world as we experience it, which is a surreal sentiment. The mechanics of my work’s inner logic isn’t canonical or rigorous, it just needs to be believable enough so someone looking at it accepts its truth. There is a danger in being “too surreal” which is kind of enticing. Things in that realm can get cheesy or operate with a thin-skinned symbolism. That transparent escapism either resonates with someone or falls flat. “Weird” and “strange” can easily become “goofy” and “stupid”. I think that’s what keeps me interested in making images like I do; there’s always the vulnerability of showing too much of yourself, or committing to the wrong idea, being embarrassed, or let down by what you’ve made.
It’s probably no surprise but I resonate with artists like Isa Genzken, Jutta Koether, Martin Kippenberger, Jana Euler, etc. They share this urgency to generate ideas while staying open to invention.