I make small pictures in small spaces, generally my home. I have a stubborn confidence in the human endeavor in which the things figure. A complete faith in it at best, a resignation to it at worst. I sit in a chair and clutch these things to my body. I mark at them, pretty them up, dishevel them, love and hate them. Holler and spit at them, pet and paw at them. Beg them to say something plainly to me, an ever growing pile of wasted time and wrong turns at my lap and feet, panic setting in. Then calming myself, reminding myself that there’s no sense in arguing the thing out of being what it is. Beatific and at peace for a moment, then inevitably desirous and doubtful. These are human things, human scaled, and with human concerns.  Grandpa out on the porch carving another little doo-dad to stick up on the mantel.