I view life and my surroundings in a different way from others. The beauty of the world is immense. I find rotting trees on the forest floor and the color of rust on a decaying, abandoned car just as beautiful as spring flowers.
Graffiti excites me when others may find it offensive. It seems tribal, territorial markings of voices otherwise unheard. I liken it to the Neanderthals leaving their hand prints on cave walls. These things influence my work as much as the feelings I get seeing a neglected child in tears, or the empty eyes of the frail and dying who are not ready to give up this world, and the sound of joy-filled singing.
Painting is a compulsion, an addiction from which I cannot break. It is a release to my soul. No matter how much I feel I'm exposing my deepest vulnerability for the world to scrutinize, I must do this to feel whole. It defines me.
I wonder what the future generations will imagine when they evolve and look back at the markings of what we once were. Will they think of us as enlightened beings or lunatics on an endless search to cleanse their souls?