I believe in friction The force that defines the moment of our birth What builds us up through its overcoming and grinds us down in its timeless endurance The thing that obscures, stretches and twists the straight line between life and death What technology seeks to iron out The excess of the imperfect I believe in friction

Let the rest have speed Speed belongs to the italian futurists and their facist dreams To the efficiency of a well run machine And the superior firepower taught in war academies

Baldwin said the artist stands with integrity outside of any system whatever Motherwell agreed, “The artist stands for the human against society; society therefore treats him as an anarchist. Societys logic is faulty, but its intimation of an enemy is not”

The frictionless exists in theory- friction exists in practice, friction is practice. Purity and its infinite smoothness belong to the bodiless. That is, the frustrated made disgusted by discomfort. Friction belongs to the organic and the human - mystics err in denying that it exists.

Life as lived is too messy for answers, where there are questions there must be friction.

What lies at the hearth of an impulse? Where lies the hearth of the impulse?

A drawing is the result of friction embraced and a document of its course Whether its charcoal against the grain of the canvas The endless iteration of mixing paint Shavings of an eraser The white overlapping black to white to black again To write a draft and the sculpt it into its final form. Rushing thoughts scrape against the cavern of the skull The frictive heat of love making and dialogue The decision to make art or advance a career The hearts rhythm pumps out of step with the march of the clock Insomuch that an artist can choose their fate, friction is a necessary part of their profession because to create is to embrace friction. In friction, there is defiance.