I began as a compulsive doodler in public school, back when making pictures was dangerous, subversive fun. My first project was a five-cent sex magazine, drawn on stolen carbon paper, secretly printed in the office copy room. I got into trouble when my fifth grade teacher Mr. Cassidy dumped the mess in my desk on the classroom floor while I was away at home sick with the flu.
Back then I lived within the margins of exercise books drawing tiny deliciously violent wars undetectable to the eyes of roving teachers. I think I inherited the ability for ,making detailed marks from my great-grandfather who inscribed the Judaic Torah onto tiny scrolls of parchment paper, stuffed into boxes nailed into the doorways of Jewish homes in Poland.
My practice involves working in close proximity to myriad stashes of pencils, markers, brushes and paper throughout the house, caches marked by ink stained walls, hardwood floors and furniture. Eraser fragments and pencil shavings fester in these environs mulltiplying like bunnies. My wife and children tolerate my obsession and perpetually work to camouflage the carnage when guests drop by.
I approach color reluctantly, wet black ink giving the most spontaneous reportage. My focus is shape, the queen of graphic elements, while color and meaning remain tertiary. I try to keep the sequence of cognition as primal as possible by concentrating my energy and emotion into the mark making, the stroke itself, the voice in my work.