Photography functions as a mirror that I can use to reflect scenes that are more worthwhile than any I could ever paint. With photos I can quickly capture an image of the passage of time, a true and simple history. I observe time as art. The photos are records of years which have literally carved their way into the plaster of a painted wall. Other scenes are of building materials and paint, canyons and cliffs, carts and machines going about their daily tasks and etching an incidental yet impeccably poignant rendition of time and the elements into my negative's emulsion.

Very possibly the only way a painting could be so honest would be if it were the paint on the wall of a narrow alley way. Too narrow for cars, these walls will have been scratched at by lovers on bicycles, farmers pushing fruit carts and jewelry smashing against the wall as a tourist trips over a cobblestone.   The benefit of my camera reflecting these images for the viewer is that it frames these accidental compositions in a way that they can be seen like an abstract painting. The thesis might be that no painting or high art could come close to the unquestioned strokes of a composition created by the all-powerful hand of time and necessity.