Newest New York Show, www.launchf18.com
Newer ArtSlant Interview about Yaddo Residency, ArtSlant
New Artnet Video on YouTube
It would never occur to me to draw what I already know. I am no illustrator of long expired fevers, and I am certainly not in a dialogue with the past. The perfect blank of a page, and I should ruin that with history? What with all the divination to be gleamed from the flames of literature, such elaborate displays of what can be, amid larvae and lemurs? A drawing glows as nothing in life ever can. Upon it the language of desire materializes absolute, total. Empty one world and exchange it for a new sultry vision, more voluptuous. Go deep within the labyrinth's weltering tides carrying a sword, and come out holding a severed head. Bite the necks of Baudelaire's birds. Speak to the spectres and become one with them.
Life is such a meager substitute. You cannot pocket it, cannot discard it. Drawing is the only way to summon up the physical picture of the locale of a fleeting mirage, devoid of all distractions and unhinged from circumstance, mere history. In the end a pattern forms, and poof! a kind of miracle of meaning, even if granted for myself only.
Newer ArtSlant Interview about Yaddo Residency, ArtSlant
New Artnet Video on YouTube
It would never occur to me to draw what I already know. I am no illustrator of long expired fevers, and I am certainly not in a dialogue with the past. The perfect blank of a page, and I should ruin that with history? What with all the divination to be gleamed from the flames of literature, such elaborate displays of what can be, amid larvae and lemurs? A drawing glows as nothing in life ever can. Upon it the language of desire materializes absolute, total. Empty one world and exchange it for a new sultry vision, more voluptuous. Go deep within the labyrinth's weltering tides carrying a sword, and come out holding a severed head. Bite the necks of Baudelaire's birds. Speak to the spectres and become one with them.
Life is such a meager substitute. You cannot pocket it, cannot discard it. Drawing is the only way to summon up the physical picture of the locale of a fleeting mirage, devoid of all distractions and unhinged from circumstance, mere history. In the end a pattern forms, and poof! a kind of miracle of meaning, even if granted for myself only.
