I’ve always said painting mimics life.
I paint and paint and paint. I add color.
I add texture. I remove color.
I remove texture. I add another moment
and that creates more.
I rid a portion. that too becomes
with what remains.
I paint for days and days and not know what the fuck I’m doing. And then one day I’m a fucking genius.
The tide dictated here is as random as what keeps us breathing.
In all that color, layer, stroke, peel, wash, pull, scrape and splatter there is time.
Beautifully imperfect and Stamped into canvas or day like early 20th century industrial buildings remaining aside
Filthy with living.
2010 i believe creating art is the translation of the subjective unconsciousness onto a physical plane- no matter how aloof the abstraction is, there always is a birth place whether it is pretty or not.. the dictation is made regardless. my work often tells me how i feel. physically answering “why” to what i cannot emotionally interpret.
i started off as a poet, in love with being able to say the most with least possible space consumed. the precision was pure and the abstraction, limitless. then the spontaneity of photography hooked me.
now, it is the observed time-process of painting. often seemingly monochromatic, or simple at a distance. if then, the simplicity has properly seduced into an intimate viewing- you find a true abyss… colors you never thought there before and intricate chaos within a large tranquil screen.. it is called life. those details are called experience. these gestural interactions are private, yet reveal themselves eagerly to those interested, promised to never end up in the same space twice.
it’s a dadaist introduction. little else beside the paint itself determines authenticity, allowing itself to become itself without interruptive “thought” (that has came from elsewhere, hence, has been done before) then…. more often than not, i allow the ego to step inside and satisfy conscious demands driven by obsessive preconceived beliefs of form, balance, color, composition etc. the actual editing process from here can be one mark or an entire vigorous surface wash. in the end, there are no recognizable ends. the essence is the work and the re-work, the worn, aged, peeled, scraped, scrubbed, bruised & often (literally) showered. these very physical paintings exhaust themselves to uncover their solution. the interaction of colors and marks are turned into themselves by the very act of being allowed to be themselves. watching changes as they occur with strokes taken back or movement forced over. neighboring marks integrate and fizz within a whole. nothing is fully removed without evidence remaining.
and just like these paintings, whether chaotic or calm, life too, is justly examplified in uncertainty and inevitable change. unknowingly & often- calm on the outside, chaotic on the in.