(Or... Thinking About Myself When The Family is Away)
The night I paint is not the real night. It is not informed by photography (references are, if any, daylight shots) nor do I work "Pein Air". I'm sure as hell not Vincent van Gogh.
My night is of the imagination, of a longing for night when life keeps you shackled, oh so surely, to the day. Night is solitude and loneliness, two sides of a coin I keep bright and polished in my pocket.
Being happily married and a father keeps me from fetching out that coin as often as I used to, so I paint what it represents. It is another life, full of uneasiness and mystery, humor and fear, possibility and sadness. It is a life I only dream about, because I choose to be awake. That way lies madness, but there are some pretty pictures to be got out of it.