Increasingly, my practice invokes a desire to break the rules.  To channel pain I can’t convey.  Often, I place my canvas on the floor and use pipettes to pour aqueous acrylic paint on top of carefully rendered layers of oil, ruining the archival quality of the image.  The paint streams and cracks across the surface, taking control over the image.  As a result, the process creates a new narrative, referencing the ways a carefully planned vision can be upended by unpredictable storms.  This form of abstraction reminds me of the slippery nature of memory.  We squeeze it, trying to hold on to a truth we want to hear.  But it wriggles free.  In coming out, I was forced to re-examine the stories I told myself through a new lens.