The best of what I do I don't understand. I do not comprehend the brush stroke after brush stroke accumulated in the quest for formality the substance of quality. The resonance of what was accomplished in a day's work took, I confess that the outcome is some sort of a miraculous event. There are no primary exercises which will substantiate the result. Form is essential but from it reposes but illusion. What results are determined by a detailed constant survey of the painted surface. Areas that are destined to erase and change for greater clarity than is present. It becomes a battle royal -- there are times of appeasement in earnest, what is found is discovery and in shards of the finished work. Hidden in crevices of paint are intimate discourses which lead to a poetic sense of accomplishment. The picture takes place again in the new encounter.