Sometime ago I began gathering tin-types from resale shops and antique dealers, without the thought of painting on them. I was seduced by the mysterious feelings they gave me, and fell in love with them as strange and delicate objects. The mystery doesn't spring merely from the fact that they are relics of the past: the nostalgia doesn't interest me. What I find alluring is that they seem to be images, not of people as objects, but of their deeper, inner-selves. Children seem ripe with wisdom and self control, some of the adolescents are tinged with a sinister under-current, and many of the adults appear to have attained a spiritual purity, as if they were apparitions from another world. I have a lot of respect and admiration for the anonymous photographers who were able to capture such ethereal qualities in a medium that is considered to be the 19th century equivalent to contemporary snapshots.

I had been feeling dissatisfied with my work, like something definitive was lacking. I needed a more intense focus and a stronger base from which to paint. In 1990, on a whim, I decided to paint on one of the tin-types I had found. Although my first few attempts weren't very successful as paintings, I knew that this was a way to solve a lot of the problems I had been wrestling with, and it freed up my imagination as well. The tin-types automatically gave me something of substance to respond to, both as an object, and as a source of content. The subject matter of the painting is usually inspired by the photograph in some way. The photographic image also lends a sense of realism to the paintings, making the impossible seem more convincing. The figures stand out in sharp contrast from their painted surroundings, and yet are a seamless part of their environments.

It has become very important to me that I integrate something into my work that I do not initially create. I think this comes from my need to collaborate, in this case with deceased photographers, and my love for transforming things. Some of the paintings remain fairly faithful to the original photograph, like Green Poet, while others become completely transformed. In Sparrow, a Christian woman has become a small bird, and in Raging Bull, the bottom of a chair has become a bull, and the boy's hand now rests on a penis, rather than on the arm of a chair. Up to this point I have not altered the shape of the tin-types at all; they exist as I have found them. However, I am currently working on several pieces which I have altered, either by joining two or more together to form one, or by actually cutting them into other shapes with scissors.

It is difficult for me to put into words the elements that influence the content of my work. I'm sure that growing up a Mormon in Utah and coming from a broken family that moved around a lot still has an impact on me, but I don't think this is readily available to other people. And although my work is very personal, I am not trying to illustrate specific instances from my life. I like the work to be open enough to allow people to bring their own experiences to it.

I know that I consciously strive to develop a cohesive variety in the work, and try to maintain an overall balance of ideas and emotions; I am searching for imagery that stirs the body as well as the mind. This allows me the freedom to dig deeper into certain pieces, then come up for air in others.