We all want to believe in impossible things.

I was born just outside Asbury Park, New Jersey in the summer of 1969. For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a writer…a musician…a photographer…a painter. I have always felt a strong force lurking under the surface; a deep and powerful need to express my emotions and visually share them with others.

I studied Mass Communications and Anthropology at Florida State University while continuing my own creative endeavors through music, photography, writing, and creating visual art.

While balancing a career in the advertising world that I grew to despise, I worked feverishly on the side in a self-imposed creative exile in order to develop my art and find an escape to a–more creative and fulfilling life.–I use the word exile because making art and playing music seemed so separate and counter-cultural to my life in advertising. The two worlds didn't meet. It was only my music, writing and painting that got me through some extremely dark times. While it was not easy to give in and fully pursue my art, as I look back, I can see a very clear path though.

While on a business trip to San Francisco in 2001, I spent some time browsing the galleries along Geary Street and was completely caught off guard by a painting so captivating and haunting, the likes of which I had never seen. Similar to hearing a song for the first time and not being able to get enough of it, I knew instantly that I could not live without this beautiful, mesmerizing painting. The thought of never seeing it again made me ill. Completely out of my price range, I desperately tried to convince myself that I had no business buying such a major piece of art. I couldn't put it out of my mind no matter how hard I tried. I couldn't eat; I couldn't sleep without the image of this painting entering my mind.

I didn't realize it at the time, but seeing this painting was the beginning of a new chapter in my life — not only as a collector, but as an artist. That painting spoke to me in ways that I did not yet understand. It calmed my fears and self-doubt and led me to pursue my own art full- time.

I can only hope that my paintings bring to others the joy and inspiration that painting by Claude Lazar still brings me.

My work reflects my reaction to our overly connected, media-saturated world. My painting is largely inspired by my life-long love affair with New York City and the art and music created there. New York inspires me on all levels - visually,–sonically,–and musically. –There, my senses are heightened as I am surrounded by the architecture, the swarms of people, the graffiti, and the sounds of all the hustle and bustle and roar of the trains. The near constant motion and energy feeds me and drives my work even in my Atlanta studio.

The creation of a new painting is my attempt to create order out of chaos. When I am at the easel painting there is a shift in my consciousness - I forget about how connected we are now; about rampant materialism; about the oil spill; the economy, etc. and I just paint. – It's ironic how a lot of negative thoughts and feelings can go into a painting and be transformed into something optimistic and uplifting. –I want my work to bring to mind the warmth and refuge of a daydream; of being at peace, pleasantly lost in thought. I work in a large scale in order to foster intimacy and to offer the opportunity for the viewer to ignore the noise of modern day life for as long as they wish to be engaged.

Process

To "make" a painting is to let it happen. To explore and seek out where the piece is taking you…to look and listen and trace the path. To sift through one's influences, memories and feelings and communicate in a different language — a visual language, leaving the meaning up to the viewer. To quote Joan Mitchell, when asked about the meaning of a particular painting: "I can't tell you [what it means], if I could say it in words I'd write a book."

A great painting should look spontaneous — as if it just happened. This is what I try to achieve, although my paintings are carefully built up, layer upon layer. Working in oil with oil sticks and charcoal, I add and reduce by scraping and rubbing paint off of the canvases to reveal the hidden, obscure marks residing below in the undercurrents.