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I used to paint with paint. The last painting I made was of a pear set upon a frozen ocean, with a distant Antarctica in the background. I can't imagine my career as a oil painter ending any other way. I stopped using oil paint because it contains lead. Sometimes I could feel its toxicity churning in my viscera. But in my real viscera, not viscera in the Greenbergian sense.
I wrote paintings. Art history consists of words and ideas mostly. Why not let a fabrication of history preclude the original object altogether?, I asked.
I could find no answer to this question, so I proceeded, inventing works of art that did not ever exist.
Sometimes I hate everything I have ever done.
Maybe you feel that way sometimes, too.
One day I woke up and I had an idea. I would make a book of weird scenes.
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I like to make pictures of a variety of subjects. Things like:
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Look around at my website, I have all kinds of stuff, but I am always working on more things to add.
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