Two or three mornings a week I bring my oversized drawing board and paper into the woods to record visual information.  What I record is not an image that could be seen through a viewfinder or captured by a lens - instead my marks reflect the landscape that surrounds (engulfs) my paper and myself.  The resulting image is fractured and compressed, yet at the same time more complete and encompassing than a traditional one-point perspective drawing would be. 
            Once I am satisfied with the record I bring it back to the studio where I fracture and compress the information further. I achieve this in the newest works by blocking off sections of the drawing and responding to the marks one section at a time. This blocking is an acknowledgement that when painting I am so close to the paper that I can only see the immediate area that I am working on. It is also a reflection of the fractured nature of both the recording and any information extracted from it.  I see this as a translation of the drawn record into the language of paint much the way data is used to create digestible facts. That is, I use the paint to bring definition to small areas of the drawing, knowing that the defined moment will likely disrupt the rest of the piece.

The final image is a conversation about the following:
the malleability of facts and memory,
the inherent flaws in a fixed perspective,
the impossibility of multiple perspectives,
the disparity between the mark and the reference,
the substitution of the mark for the referenced subject,
the ability of the mark to contrive the reference,
the ability of the present to contrive the past,
and the narrowness needed to find truth.

            I use landscape because I like pitting myself against the traditional notions of owned, demarcated, and subjected land. I like framing the above conversations in the social, religious, and political tradition of landscape. I am arguing against such fixedness of ownership, perspective, and thought.