view21 November 2025
Moon/pink (working title), or maybe Rudder: today's Oblique Strategies advised “infinitesimal gradations,” which is timely—this is a painting of the moon or sun in the London winter sky made with many thin layers of white tinted by various intensities of red and blue. Tried to make the difference in the tints as subtle as possible, George Tooker's embossed inkless intaglios in mind. This toward defamiliarizing and holding anew the scene hovering above that has become so familiar in the past three years. Following the details of sensation right now above all else, paying attention to their peaks and valleys, trying to relax into circling around their elusive core.
view19 November 2025
Null map
Air purple to skin dart
down spinal central boots
rushing flat gum sole
our own pockets of water
on a strawberry hill
view17 November 2025
Floor 2 still life: In a 1956 interview with James Johnson Sweeney, Duchamp explains that “the danger is to lead yourself into a form of taste,” and this painting feels like it may have been an affirmation of that idea. The tension between that concept and dogged will to repeatedly poke at the personal/familiar is a potentially fruitful gap to widen; a cultivating of the ability to simultaneously self-reflect and self-negate. Relevant to how after being a vagabond for close to four months now, the idea of the familiar has warped. Paintings that are emerging are of consistent concerns popping up in the least consistent of places. They're waypoints, places to slow the senses into thought.
view15 November 2025
Image inventory: bathroom with tub that turns into a shower by a single glass panel covering half of of its width, a vinyl sign for development plans zip-tied to a fence showing a digitally-rendered image of an empty white room with high arched ceilings and fluorescent white lighting, the corner of a third floor hotel room ceiling that marks a separation between the gray interior and the blue sky outside, a U.S.A forever postage stamp of a red and green compass torn in half with a black ink stamp of an eagle and the numbers 1776 overlapping it, reflection of the sky hovering over a glass-enclosed hotel toilet, a pillow on a chair as an ill-fitting cushion, a bicycle tire missing the entirety of its hub locked to a bicycle stand with a bicycle lock, a slide on a children's playground in the shape of a tongue extending from an open mouth, the empty interior of a stainless steel reusable water bottle, shadows falling over/into a lined notebook, a headless mannequin wearing three layers of black rain jackets, a small brown house with three windows and a satellite dish, a stained-glass door centerpiece of a green leaf pattern spanning the length of a background that fades from pure white to pure black, a mural of a cactus in the middle of Dalston, a wet medical glove on the ground with its middle finger extended, a reflection of a lamppost in a large puddle, a fox sitting on the edge of a train platform, seven satellites attached to four flat windows, silver curtains, rainbow oil in a puddle of rain.
view13 November 2025
Continuing to work with humanless interiors. Bathrooms specifically. About to paint the one I've been assigned at this sublet. But what I have in mind has less to do with making a record of the space and more about creating something that can subdivide itself in the way that these places do in my memory as I burn through them. Discovered, serendipitously, Artschwager's Door Window Table Basket Mirror Rug drawings for the first time. Have been holding Door Window Table Basket Mirror Rug #10 (1974). Of the genesis of the series, he has said:
I flipped to a drawing of an interior, a room I had once occupied, and made a list of the six objects that were in it. I decided to take this as an instruction to make one drawing, then another, and another, and so on. The instruction endured and I “played” those six objects like I play the piano—I guess you could say that it was some kind of fugal exercise.
At this point I'm not interested in a fugal exercise as such, but I am interested in perceptual change located in something static and how I can technically approach rendering that change in a way that subtly points beyond the confines of observed forms.
view11 November 2025
One of the key ideas I was left with after chatting with Edith for the podcast was her awareness/description of painting as an experiential intervention. Which is useful to consider in tandem with attention—her work is characterized by its attentiveness, sensitive to shifting modes of embodied perception and what those different modes imply beyond the sensorial. But what speaking with her about the refinement of her approach taught me was that she is in a constant state of building, destroying, and rebuilding the logic that governs her relationship to deep attention, treating it as something with the potential for both tenderness and violence depending on how it is applied. And what is more important, as an artist, than holding oneself accountable to sustained, detail-oriented mindfulness in the process of reframing and representing experience for an audience?
view9 November 2025
In re-unconvering a more considered and precise approach to image-making, I'm aware of a kind of compositional trap that is threatening to emerge, so I'm writing this as a reminder to resist that. It's not useful, to myself or to others, to show images that worry about adhering to logical/neat compositional math. It's constricting. Discovered Susan Te Kahurangi King's drawings recently, (specifically have been studying documentation of those from her 2016 Drawings 1975-1989 show at Andrew Edlin), and they are refreshing in their complete indifference to this kind of presentability. Which I get the sense is natural for her. From some images I've seen of her working, she goes at it flat, nose to paper. As a result, the work grows out of an engrossed state and multiplies organically from corners, edges, or, according to a release I read, more spur of the moment starting points born from existing marks/creases on surfaces.
view7 November 2025
Two dreams last night split by waking up. The first was a recurring one where I am flying alone high above an urban downtown landscape, thousands of feet in the air. But it's not exactly flying, I'm not flapping my limbs to propel myself. I'm sort of floating, buoyant in the air. I can control my movements up and down in an indirect way, similar to how one might bring an eye floater from one's periphery into their direct field of vision by noticing how looking in a certain direction affects the movement of the floater. In the air I'm aware that I'm feeling a little bit of fear, but it's mostly blissful. Somehow I trust completely in my body's unique relationship to gravity. I can't detect the presence of any other humans from where I am, and there isn't any sound aside from the wind in my ears when I move through it. I simply bounce/float from skyscraper to skyscraper, just gently pushing off of a corner of each one I encounter rather than landing full stop. Each time I have this dream, I'm kind of figuring out the physics of it at the start, but by the end I have worked out how to navigate through the sky at a comfortable pace and it becomes pretty relaxing. Last night I had that dream, woke up around when the sun was rising over London, and then fell asleep again for about an hour. In that hour I had a much quicker dream where I was high in the air again, but this time I was over a bright aquamarine-colored ocean hanging by three silver balloons. I felt more fear in this situation, aware that the balloons were suspending my body and I didn't inherently have the power to float like in the first dream. After hanging for a minute or two, I willingly let go of the balloons and rocketed headfirst toward the water, picking up speed as I approached the surface. As I plunged into it I woke up, sat up in bed, and an ice cold shiver ran from my head to my feet—picture a laser-scan of an object from top to bottom as it is being digitized by some capturing device. It really seemed as though I was feeling the sensation of the water enveloping my body as I entered it.
view5 November 2025
Found Charles Wright's poetry for the first time. Kindred spirit. His mind, at least in his early work (which is all I've read so far, have a ways to go) vignettes the edges of his observation with a soft, lovely kind of darkness. Born from restraint, which is key—he says his poems come from “what I see, rather than from an idea I had in mind: idea follows seeing rather than the other way around,” so that darkness is meditative, solitary, contemplative. Implies an affirmation of sensation (Camus!) rather than a grasping for meaning. Pieces are noticed and arranged, organized by a hopeful and curious spirit with an ear for the kind of chance that feels inevitable after he has preserved it. Digging “Black and Blue” (1991) right now.
view3 November 2025
“Still-Life on a Matchbox Lid” (1991) by Charles Wright