When I look at my paintings, I recognize the traces of the petite dramas of their making.
I see all their elements: The expressive use of paint, the erasing of paint with paint, the figures, the writing and the abstraction eating them like The Nothingness eats Fantasia in The Neverending Story (1984). The whole lot of it, as the laid out process of a guy that tries to paint something affirmative with a brush made of doubts; as if the process of composing a satire was a satire of itself. I think this addresses the oxymoron that contemporary painting can be; where all style is both available and historically empty.
These paintings need to be represented, believed in, loved and shown, because they are truthful to the fragile condition of being an artist today and if you dig into each one of them there's an idea, an ethos, a void to fulfill. Not something to show off or be cool or trendy about. These paintings might be built on the painterly scars of their own mistakes and tribulations, but their insistence builds them up into affirmation of the contemporary condition. And the drama, the satire, the mirror, are not aimed as the resulting image to make, but they are the process itself, in that sense these paintings don't lure your affection they don't sell you anything, but are composed of that affective process, and I think that's worth it.