The Elusive Absolute
An artist makes paintings at the edge of what is recognizable as art, and yet, at the very moment when that realization seems immanent, it shifts and blurs. It contains a promise that at some point the very nature of reality will become clear, that its meaning will unfold. What is not real? If art is imaginary, it is somehow pre-determined by the means of production. Fresh plaster is a surface that seems to both absorb and radiate paint the way black absorbs light, at once standing before one as a formidable object in itself; and then, when this virgin ground is stained, rubbed, and splashed it emanates a paradoxical space that is both infinitely flat and infinitesimally deep. These are not mere exercises in virtuosity. Each work uses only sufficient technique to bring out an idea—the essence—as the artist's touch is able to give only the most rudimentary manifestation of the intelligence behind. At back, the work-of-art is an urgency, one that will not wait, and yet, one that cannot advance. The simple application of paint upon a surface, carrying its own inner meaning, relieves the painter of responsibility as being other than a passionate participant. The point at which paint becomes a painting is the art of the painter.