Everything you try to make is resistant. Dirt doesn’t want to be dug, wood hates the blade, keyboards can’t spell, and the South ain’t talking. My South, at least. Like it or not, it’s my very resistant material. I play little tricks on myself to get at it, to sneak up on it. (For instance, I’m writing this with a ballpoint pen on a paper plate. The less it feels like an author writing prose, the easier it is for me to sound like myself. I’ve got a bunch of other devices too embarrassing to mention here.) I use the comedy of my word paintings or puppets to dissolve the self-pity and anger. I’ve got to be goofy or make a picture. I must find the humor, and therefore the pathos, of the Hixson High School Class of ’75 talking Trump in the hamburger smoke by the TVA lake, my mama’s garage sale addiction, Daddy’s impenetrable Country Boy stoicism, or the shame of being bad at sports in 1960s Chattanooga.

I had to leave the South to become an artist. First, New York City, and now, Los Angeles. I haven’t lived in the South since Jan. 31, 1981. I look away, but I always look back. I guess I’m still kinda mad about it, all that ignorant pushback. You get old enough and you realize there’s nobody actually pushing back. They forgot about you 40 years ago, if they even thought about you at all. The drama is all in your head. But the wrestling continues. The last four years haven’t helped. But you know what does? This brilliant Bitter Southerner deal. A big, beautiful tent. It’s good to be here. I’m happy and honored to present art from my family, friends, and myself. I hope it sneaks up on you and lowers your resistance.