creative statement

I paint the south

Not the south on maps

But the one that hums

Beneath porch light and sweat

Fields that stretch too wide to hold

A memory, a name, a thing I didn’t mean to carry

Wet grass on bare feet

Quiet at the dinner table

Misted windows, nothing moving

Driving at night, going no where

It’ll always be like this

I don’t choose to paint, I just do

Like scratching at the door of something

Too old to speak plainly

There’s comfort and a quiet ache stitched into the land

Like thread pulled too tight

I look for what stays and what slips

How tradition frays

How silence swells

How nostalgia lies

Wide sky, empty chair

A gesture half remembered still asking to be seen