As much as I love painting, I hate painting. Everything about the process is a perpetual failure. As the poet strives to affect life through words, the painter strives to affect life through the force of an image. How much of life is ever altered or affected through a poem -let alone a painting? The failures are consistently equal to the ambition which drives the creation. The painting exists in a state of contradiction. Born of passion and impulse, the painting exists fixed and lifeless waiting to be felt. The painting can do nothing but desire to be alive within the hearts and minds of it’s viewer. A painting is forever lost within the romance of possibility; eternally fixed within its boundaries, it is an echo into and within itself – always waiting to be awakened within the life of a sensitive viewer.