Every day I go to my studio and I have this dream that I will create something beautiful, or maybe something elegant and calming to balance the psychological energy of our violent, frightening and uncertain times. Instead I find myself reflecting a manic sensibility through effigies of kitsch and the objects of a lost childhood of imaginary innocence. I have learned through the years that I cannot fight myself. I am bound to mine the collective unconscious, transforming the objects of my perception into conveyors of meaning, prickly with cultural projections, and raw with social upheavals. What of my dream of beauty? Sadly, I must settle for humor instead.