Revelator
Revelator, acrylic on panel, 13" X 10"
private collection, New York City.
This painting is finished, although if you compare this photo with the two from earlier states (see images in comments below) you might wonder since this one seems more abraded... more unmade than made. Because it is.
The first two color states that I've include give a sense of a primary way I paint: using dry brush. Working on an image like this, simulating a blur, is generally very labor intensive. Part of what interests me about this method is the phenomenological tension between an image (the source photo) that is the product of a very brief moment (perhaps a one second exposure) and the painted "replication) that gives evidence of many many seconds.
But then sometimes I sand a painting. As much as with any painting I've made the sanding of this painting radically upended the tension just mentioned. The evidence of the brush's caress just spoken of is gone. Suddenly I'm holding something that, seemingly, I didn't make. That is, there is a curious psychological shift that the sanding of the surface—largely eradicating brush marks—produces.
One thing the sanding emphasizes is the horizontal seam marking the meeting of the two parts of the underlying, long gone acrylic transfer. The resulting line has various potential readings: a border of some sort.
Revelator
Revelator, acrylic on panel, 13" X 10"
private collection, New York City.
This painting is finished, although if you compare this photo with the two from earlier states (see images in comments below) you might wonder since this one seems more abraded... more unmade than made. Because it is.
The first two color states that I've include give a sense of a primary way I paint: using dry brush. Working on an image like this, simulating a blur, is generally very labor intensive. Part of what interests me about this method is the phenomenological tension between an image (the source photo) that is the product of a very brief moment (perhaps a one second exposure) and the painted "replication) that gives evidence of many many seconds.
But then sometimes I sand a painting. As much as with any painting I've made the sanding of this painting radically upended the tension just mentioned. The evidence of the brush's caress just spoken of is gone. Suddenly I'm holding something that, seemingly, I didn't make. That is, there is a curious psychological shift that the sanding of the surface—largely eradicating brush marks—produces.
One thing the sanding emphasizes is the horizontal seam marking the meeting of the two parts of the underlying, long gone acrylic transfer. The resulting line has various potential readings: a border of some sort.