The painting, The Third Of May 1808, by Francisco de Goya (1814) captures one of the most powerful images I've ever seen in a painting. A man is there, with a loose bright white shirt unbuttoned from neck to chest, his arms and hands outstretched above his head and waving like the wings of a bird. He is on his knees staring into a faceless firing squad. His last thoughts seem to register in his wide tearful eyesso long my life. The central image, or the man surrendering his life, has never died. He has lived facing death every day for almost 200 years. The bullets are frozen in time. They have never made it to their destination. They have not yet taken this mans life, Goya pauses time. He makes death impossible making life endless. He puts a delicate piece of china on the very edge of a high shelfmaking seconds in time fragile. As an artist, I am after a solution. I am haunted. I am searching for resolution to my continuous ideas and perceptions. The act of creating is like an illness or an obsession for me . My art practice is a means of defense. I'm creating sheilds for coping with the weather. My job as an artist is to simulate and amplify my surroundings. Art activates the senses and it is my duty to provide arrangements for those senses to then punctuate what we already know. Unless my work can shelter or feed, it is nothing more than another problem taking up space. I try to see these problems as a means to create.