The paintings I make are both generic and branded. The elements of composition (i.e. stripes, concentric squares or circles) in the works are not unlike paintings by numerous other artists. The brushstrokes are deadpan marks that reveal nothing. They are human, but anyone with a reasonably stable hand could make them. Yet the colors of these paintings have specific meaning. The palette is determined by assigning the letters of my name with colors in a random manner. The paintings literally spell my name in color. These works end up being both exclamations and denials of the self. They are metaphors for our desire to define ourselves as individuals. But they also question the notion of value placed upon the original or unique in modernist history.