Working on a complete set of figurative Stations of the Cross is quite a challenge. The art history, not to mention History, makes for a daunting chorus of voices in the background.
The first two of these paintings are direct visual criticisms of artists that I am completely opposed to; Andre Serrano, Jeff Koons. All of my recent work is critical of what these and Damien Hirst, Chris Ofili, Tracey Emin et.al. stand for, though perha
Carpal tunnel has kept me from painting this summer so I have been doing watercolors, mostly left handed. I also included w/c & pastel sketches for some paintings which I haven’t ruined in my messy studio. These are
This year, besides the usual problem I’ve set myself; (Making paintings which express the ordinary yet extra-ordinary, strangely magic moments life offers if we’ll only stop and listen.) I’m working on clarity, and sureness in my brushwork. Some of the l
A Suite of paintings of the most remarkable, and somehow lonely tree I know. An old, six foot thick (at 3′ above ground), rock hard Sugar Maple. Which has been tortured by time, harsh weather, deer, and cattle. It is a miracle of life.
A suite of paintings from the woods which run through town near my home. In the woods are the ravines wich played an important part in The Civil War Battle of Marshall, near Salt Fork Creek. Locals have called this wooded ravine the Devil’s Bath.
A Suite of paintings based on ideas born over the many years of study & thinking about Matila Ghyka’s Great Book “The Geometry of Art & Life.” Pre 2003
A suite of work I turned to during interesting times. When the world moved in too close and I needed to push back. Pre-2003
Landscapes of the Missouri River Valley area. Monet once said; “People discuss my art and pretend to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it’s simply necessary to love.” If you can actually love a place, I’ll take this one.
Portraits, commissions, & paintings of people that I care about, know, or just find interesting.
“Walkin’ through the tall cutgrass down by the rivers’ ochre-tan & deep blue-brown edge as my fingers drag across the grass tips. Pollen & some seed acumulate on my legs and in the laces of my boots. Occasionally I pull a tall stem and chew the sweet yellow grass end as I walk along, my shadow flickering through. Duckin’ under low branches at the meadows’ edge, I find myself singing aloud in the keys of bluegrass cool.” Grey Watchman