My work is increasingly concerned with modes of ambivalence. Everything would be different if I held some definitive notion of what it means to be beautiful or grotesque, pristine or marred, right-angled or shaped, cleverly-crafted or incompetent, material or conceptual. Instead, I am less and less sure every day. There are moments when I no longer even know what to call the color I have in front of me, and those are very often the best moments of all. The whole thing is a slow groping about for some sure footing I’m lucky never to find. Whatever constants exist—acrylic paint, flattened color—almost seem to persist in spite of themselves, apparently carrying on largely as a reminder of the countless other options I might be pursuing instead. To my mind this is a happy summation of what it means to work.