It is always a bit surprising that pictures are seen all at once. Pictures spill into consciousness without notice and break down slowly only by sheer will. It is their strange power and weakness. Small pictures must be shameless about it. They cannot immerse the viewer in their size. They whisper to get closer. They call for intimacy. Making this series was for me an intimate act of close conversation with puddles of oil falling on grounds of pigments; a slow play with flow and absorbance, effortlessly composing into faces that want something, but remain mysterious; a want that presses on to show itself, but can only sustain the tiniest most careful strokes of interference before it disappears.