When a figure comes to me, it is like it or she or he punctures a membrane and tantalizes. The figure wants me to lure it into my world. Sometimes they are exuberant and willing. Sometimes they are shy and reluctant. Sometimes they are laughing at me behind a black fluttering curtain and won’t give me a scintilla of satisfaction.
Art is not for posterity. Art is not for later. Art is for now. Art is for Infinity.
My artistic expression necessarily challenges the surface challenges the medium challenges the color even beyond its capacity.
In this painting or maybe that one, I use paper because it WILL buckle (in upon itself).
Once the idea is posited and the surface is collected and placed, the color is first. The color is the way through.
I chose the surface that violates itself. Not the one that stays true.
Art is bullshit. I am a chimpanzee slinging feces.
Random painting – that’s how I understand my tools.
When it comes to some other discourse and discipline, the unlearned easily defers to the learned – financial, academic, artisanal, epicurean (even), etc. (ad nauseum). When it comes to artwork, everyone is an expert by birth(right) it seems. How often have we heard – wow that’s art! I could paint that. It is as it should be I suppose. But, it pisses me off.
I have spent my enter life becoming an artist – from the moment I remember and from before that even. I have expended my life with this addiction. What melodrama. I think I succeed and then I fail. The process is fundamentally erotic. Replete with moments of ecstasies and relief but always followed and moved forward by disappointment.