If you want to find me at work, look for the hour just before dark.
There’s a quality of light that lands on a wall in the last ten minutes of the day — warm, low, impatient. It shifts faster than you can name it, and for years I’ve been trying to catch it before it leaves. Oil paint and a stretched canvas turned out to be the only things that move slowly enough to hold it, and fast enough to chase it.
People sometimes ask whether I paint from photographs. I don’t, really. A photograph freezes the light; I’m trying to paint what it was about to do. The canvas remembers what the eye forgets.
