The Language of Gesture in My Paintings

I think of gesture as handwriting—unmistakably mine, yet changing with my mood and momentum. Sometimes my marks come fast and percussive, like snare hits; other times they drag and fray, revealing hesitation. I don’t treat gesture as decoration. It’s structure, breath, and tempo. I push paint with the whole body—shoulders, hips, weight shifting—so movement transfers directly onto the surface. When I slow down, you’ll see long, tethered lines that steady the eye. When I speed up, edges splinter and the composition crackles. I love the way gestures collide, compress, and then open into space. Each stroke documents a decision—made in seconds, visible forever. That permanence keeps me honest. I leave evidence: drips, scrapes, “wrong” moves. They’re part of the sentence.