Art, memory, and stories told in color
Guests remember the toasts; I remember the chairs. An essay on why the abandoned interior — glasses ringed, cushions dented, light gone flat — is the most honest portrait I will ever paint.
I drove to a remote corner of New Mexico to spend one sanctioned night inside Walter De Maria's Lightning Field, watching steel poles and an empty sky. No lightning came. What arrived instead was a reckoning with every painting I have ever abandoned too soon.
For fourteen months I drove from state to state painting one porch light scene at dusk, asking strangers to let me sit on their steps with an easel. What I found was that every region of this country mixes its version of warmth differently — and that 'home' changes hue the moment you cross a state line.
A neighbor asked me to paint her mutt mid-bark, and every professional instinct told me to decline. I said yes anyway, and the painting taught me more about the unspoken contract between artist and client than a decade of polite portraiture ever had.
For twelve months, I turned my easel away from vistas and toward carports, mailbox clusters, and HOA landscaping at golden hour. What the suburbs taught me about beauty is not what I expected.
Every apartment I have painted in has left a fingerprint on the paintings themselves. A look back at the light, the pipes, and the neighbors of seven rented rooms across America — and what they taught me about making serious work in temporary spaces.
For one month, I offered portrait commissions at no cost to nurses, truckers, and night-shift cooks across America. What I learned about dignity, intimacy, and who gets to own original art changed how I understand my own practice.
For one year, I said yes to every small commission that came my way — a beagle named Gus, a 1967 Mustang, a front porch with a rocking chair that had outlived its owner. What I found in those modest canvases was a portrait of American love more honest than anything I had ever hung in a gallery.
Without a gallery to handle logistics, I became my own registrar, crate builder, and claims adjuster. Here is what a twelve-month, cross-country shipping education taught me about cardboard, insurance, and letting go.
When the lease ended on the room where I painted for a decade, I expected an afternoon of packing. Instead, I found an archive of who I used to be, written in turpentine rags and grocery receipts.
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.
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.