What I am calling Mixed Media, you might call trash. Bits of string. Ash.Crosshatching and layering in white and grey. I layer the paint and let it dry, carving into the relief as I go. I see tall grasses nodding in the wind with each stroke. an endless striation of light. The brush in my hand feels lighter and more burdened at the same time.
Have you ever had some problems with light? With Sunlight? With the weight of light? Nothing is as it appears. A chandelier is a throwing star.
Everything is unexpected and counterintuitive. The only real recourse I have against art is to keep making it. I have instincts I never knew and they are sharper than ever. The painting helps me to see the world’s ugliness. In a way it is a heightened version of the world’s ugliness in my ever shrinking apartment. The work has occluded my life, spread it’s wings.
Paint dries and cracks in fault lines running the length of the ten foot canvas. I attack with a trowel, carving into the paint, creating a light, an immaterial light, with the weight of ice. And if you can’t find the light, cut a skylight. Cut a skylight and lift her out into the park. I can see the higher math at work, a metamorphisis. I can see a transformation in the collapsed layers, like an umbrella left opened on a cold marble floor or the robes of the Virgin Mary.