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If I curl thematic content back upon the indeterminate process engaged within the making, the resonance between method, materials and content generates unpredictable looping and overlaps. During the making of each painting I become quite lost within the ensuing intermingling. Without feeling astray I find there is no tightened sense of peril wherein all may collapse into meaninglessness. Maybe, to find something meaningful, or a coherent vitality, this impending threat of incoherence is necessary?


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