I cannot stand to watch sheets of paper run through printers, plotting ink. It is ink on paper. Call it a print but not a photograph. There is light in the decisive moment; however, there is no light in its nal conception. It is incomplete. I do not want to participate in such a process, so I paint.

I work with glass as it is remnant of my former photographic practice. Glass acts as a vehicle on which to make photographs, and it serves as their container, protecting the finished print.

On occasion, I still make photographs. I travel between black rooms, knowing exactly where my pencil, my scissors, and the enlarger’s timer are, but in this darkness I have managed to find the light switch. The photographs come out of the processor, stained. Chalky white, like ghosts. It is a reminder of the blow I felt before I began painting. It will only worsen, so I continue to paint.

To put it simply, to put it short, I just paint to mourn.