"Halah", oilbar on paper (from sketchbook), 2018
Early days of false fall, cloudy and craving layers but temperatures still climb into the 90's. This week I attack old inventory in the studio to make room to work; no mercy. I end my days with a single work in the sketchbook, exploring, ever onward, thinking in this shorthand that perhaps only I can see as paintings in another medium and different size. NYC is calling, but I fear it will be 2019 before I return. The staid slow local scene may come more alive here as things cool, but I miss the madness of Chelsea and roaming the night with my brothers in arms.
Color is coming. It has wandered back into the work of its own volition during my forced hiatus from a proper studio. I'm curious to see how it translates, but this one feels like a real step toward that honest exploration. I've been feeling the need to sit in on life drawing again; it helps me think clearly and it is ultimately humbling. Work comes from work.
My thoughts are of ancient cities, once-mighty empires whose names are all but forgotten. Their great cultures reduced to dusty bones and pottery shards. Art endures because it tells the story, and stories endure long past conquests and wealth and powerful kings. City names that now sound like prayers, whispered into the nothingness in a desperate half effort to assert what we all long to hear, "I was here. I lived and loved and accomplished and committed and failed and died. Remember me."
