He knew how to be eleven years old. He took joy in the moment—in the good slice of pizza, the trip to the arcade, the tickle fight. As part of a big family he was happy to be in company with lots of people. To his relatives I must have seemed like the strange one: quiet, introverted, demanding of difficult pleasures that were a long time in coming. I never talked to him, or to them, about love.
“The elements that dance in my head are always both visual and narrative. Whether they are expressed in painting or writing, the essence of what I am trying to convey is one in the same for me. They must derive from a place of truth and spark something of the imagination.”