If I write a treatise on what I dream of, of how history teaches and horror informs and how the impossible Star Trek future utopia inspires, how will that help the residential school ravaged grandmother walking her grandchildren past my abominations? They likely won't set down a Google path to discover what my explicit meaning is. They'll either understand that I understand that brutalizing each other ends in nothing but blood, or assume that I'm lending my cracking voice to the overwhelming cacophany that says "QUIET, INDIAN, OR WE'LL DO IT TO YOU AGAIN."
People see what they already see, and perhaps I'd best reserve myself to dark rooms for the brave and the craven pervert.
I believe so much in these works, but I also believe that the world is Hell and everything is a reminder of that. Perhaps I'm too cynical to paint people shaking hands, though that's really what many of these pieces are, in my own language.
This isn't an artist statement or a manifesto. It's incomplete and flawed as I am.
For the time being, let's say this site is under construction.