paint

I paint.

Paint is what I use to pay attention to the world.

Earth and oil; sometimes buttery, sometimes grainy, gritty.

But it's a medium--a via--a path toward representing how I see.

Why hide it: these clumps and drips and ridges and smears?

the holy family no. 24

what does love see?

"meditation on Rembrandt's Portrait of Vaters" conte and pastel on paper. 22" x 30"

Modernism’s eye can be unkind. I think of Diane Arbus’ crisp clean portraits of the world’s strangers. To me they feel clinical, curious and detached.

But love’s gaze must be equally specific. Love doesn’t generalize.

I see this man: lines extending from his mouth to his jaw; wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles; the hollow in his neck just behind the left jaw; the way he blinks and stutters just a bit; the way he rolls the “r”s when he says “corrida.”

To me the portraiture of love is not generalized; does not cover over the particular or the blemished or the scarred—because these are the very features that identify this particular person and which—in love—are more important than some abstract, ideal view of beauty or elegance.