The very concept of an artist’s statement is-at the very least- of a suspicious nature. For if in fact the artist can fully define his work, the work itself is counterfeit. A work of art, like the dream constructs it is translation of our deepest inner necessities, a blind struggle to bring the visceral language of our most hidden heart into the light of form. Its dreaming while awake, and as such, impervious to the understanding of consciousness.

Once the artist has approximated this translation of the dreaming self into a fact of work, to attempt to come to terms with it consciously by explanation could only mean its his best guess. It is an interpretation no more or less accurate than that of a stranger. And it is this very quality of interpretation that intimates its authenticity, for finally his only guide and elusive one is the conviction of his conscious mind.