I start each piece with desire—an intention—and it’s often unclear until my canvas is already smothered with paint, chalk, and charcoal. I’ll sift through old children’s books, newspapers, and catalogs, tearing out whatever triggers any thought at all. I’ll stash these scraps with past sketches, paint swatches, and cluttered materials (everything from paint to gum wrappers), and the process begins. I get lost, hypnotized by the goal of production—of creation. The images, words, and themes, which dance around my head, possess my hands with such beautiful, otherworldly passion to piece together what it is that sits behind my tongue. They simultaneously consume me and my canvas. Then one day, I’ll stand up and look back at the piece, and I’ll feel. I don’t care how I feel, it’s different every time, but I’ll know it’s done when I feel something. I aim to leave my audience with the same sense of wonder, confusion, and fascination that my work grants me, its own creator. I’ll sign my work, and I’ll temporarily step away from my studio space, now a battlefield of chaos. You’d think from...