Art, memory, and stories told in color
I drove to a Texas field with a folding easel, a limited palette, and the impossible plan to paint a total solar eclipse as it happened. What totality did to my colors—and to my sense of what a painting owes to time—changed my studio practice permanently.
A sold painting does not vanish; it begins a second life in rooms I will never see. Tracing three works to a Brooklyn walk-up, a corporate lobby, and a climate-controlled storage unit, I consider what it means to let a painting become someone else's object.
Between a security deposit and a tube of genuine vermilion, I chose the pigment — again. This is an honest accounting of what one year of materials costs a working painter in an expensive American city, and why the arithmetic of scarcity sometimes sharpens the work instead of starving it.
The big-box cart and the overnight delivery cannot tell you when your underpainting is too oily. This is an argument for the independent art supply shop — and a portrait of the people who keep theirs open.
Arabic raised me, English employs me, and neither one can hold everything my grandmother said before she died. This is an essay about what happens when pigment becomes the third language — the one that doesn't need translating.
The neon of a Vegas concourse, the pewter sky over a Seattle runway, terracotta dust on a Santa Fe tarmac — fifteen airports rearranged something in how I mix color. A travel memoir about place seeping into paint.
Twenty-two fairs, two rental vans, and a spreadsheet that became my most honest critic. What the American art fair circuit actually pays — and what it quietly takes — from a working painter.
For thirty days I set up an easel in Union Square and let the city become my studio. What I learned about performance, unsolicited critique, and the strange economics of painting for an audience that never stops moving.
Titanium white is in nearly every tube of paint sold in America, and I have spent three years refusing it. This is the case for constraint — and what lead, zinc, and pure light taught me about building a palette by subtraction.
After a decade of canvases that required a rented van and two strong friends, I started painting postcards at my kitchen table. What I lost in spectacle, I gained in honesty — and what that says about American ambition is worth sitting with.
For twelve months I made my own paint — grinding stone, suspending powder, failing on schedule. The goal was a single color that no tube, no Pantone swatch, and no screen could reproduce. This is what the attempt taught me about where paint actually comes from.
Most museum visits dissolve into a pleasant blur. Here is the itinerary I give to every painter who asks: five American institutions, one specific painting in each, and the concrete lesson about color, light, or restraint that each one taught me.
When my grandmother's letters finally crossed the ocean in a battered leather suitcase, I inherited sixty years of handwriting and no instructions. This is the story of how I turned fading ink into pigment, and correspondence into composition.
Long before I owned a single tube of professional paint, I had a palette pressed into ceramic on my grandmother's kitchen wall. This essay traces how domestic spaces become an artist's first color theory class — and how memory, once translated honestly, can anchor a lifelong visual language.
The hardest tool in any studio is a blank wall with good light. After two decades of propping canvases against it — some rescued, some abandoned — I've distilled five lessons about the invisible stage of finishing a painting, written for every artist who cannot stop touching wet paint.