In the simplest terms: I make art.

It is art because I say so—

not because I’ve mastered any particular medium.

It’s art because, in the act of making,

the image crosses a threshold.

For me.

There are hundreds of mediums for making art—

from the raw edges of found objects

to the layered complexity of screen printing.

I’ve sampled a few.

I’ve “mastered” very few.

I’m pretty good at sketching.

Not bad at sculpture.

Color portraits? A struggle.

Watercolor? Monstrous.

Oil paint terrifies me.

Acrylics paralyze me.

None of that stops me.

I keep making.

Even the hideous attempts.

So—where am I comfortable?

I like working from photographs.

I like digital filters.

But I’m never satisfied with just one.

I layer them, remix them, draw into them.

Sometimes I use hand-drawn elements, sometimes none at all.

I don’t set rules about what percentage must be “mine.”

The final image is what matters.

For me, there’s no distinction between

100% hand-drawn

and 100% digital filter.

If someone else sees a difference, that’s fine.

It doesn’t change the way I see it.

I fell in love with digital in 1985.

Still am.

When I taught art appreciation,

I’d show students abstract modern art.

Some didn’t connect with it.

But if I showed realistic work by the same artist,

suddenly they understood.

“If they can paint realism,” they said,

“then the abstraction must be a choice.”

I get that.

But skill isn’t a requirement for legitimacy.

Too many potential artists disappear because they believe

they aren’t qualified.

That’s tragic.

It’s like saying you can’t be a photographer

because you don’t understand how a camera works.

The photography is in the vision.

The camera comes later.

Finding the right medium is a lifelong process.

You might stay with what’s comfortable, refining it.

You might step into discomfort and explore something new.

There’s value in both.

I used to tell my photography students:

Every great photo you admire

was probably taken by an uncomfortable photographer.

I can’t prove it.

But I believe it.

Looking at my own path, I see a deep connection to three dimensions.

That’s why sculpture has always pulled me.

But even landscapes and portraits feel dimensional—

layered, textured, full of depth.

What I love about digital is the undo.

The speed of variation.

The capacity for transformation.

I’ve made tribute works—redrawing, remixing, channeling.

Sometimes, in the process,

I learn something new from the artist I’m echoing.

I’m not done with my versions.

And if I had one piece of advice, it would be this:

Follow Duchamp.

Artists make art.

That’s it.