The paintings tell a story about place, place and time. They are fragments from being on the road. A passing look, a fleeting moment, just enough time to see, but unable to truly capture. That’s the fascinating thing about places, they were there long before you drove by and will be there long after you are not. It’s the indifference of places, the unimportance of memory. It’s the overwhelming loneliness of places, the acceptance of loneliness. People are anonymous, their sole purpose is to be the link between us and the place. It’s the forests and dying sunflowers and dead animals that fill the places with a presence of time within the timelessness of place. The primal act of painting is the human aspect in the works, an attempt at capturing what was not captured.