As you might imagine I paint under the natural light that glares through these windows as much as I take cues from the weather cycles that pass by them. Another sun comes, another sun goes, daylight storms and concrete colored mists materialize, only to fade to black. The window frames are walls and bridges to coaxing clouds into the room. The fugitive moments outside, out of focus, are like evocations of songs from before, catalysts for longing. But there is also the reverberation of the virtual light of the digital screen in this room. Within this screen the cloud is associative, organizing a temporal geography of possibilities, multiples and continuous times, feeds and spaces. This is not the light of rationalism, nor the ancient light of a distant star, of particles and waves. This is the light-lag of network, of distant data packets, of millions of calculations, of interstitial space where presence and absence fuse into equivalents. It is the light of transmitted mental states, and the shared hallucination of the “immense accumulation of spectacle.” We blur effortlessly, disappearing along its dynamic of calamity and chatter.
Out of convenience, I’ve called myself a landscape painter for a long time now, but truthfully, the paintings are closer to architectures and constructions that depict textures of terrains, the surges and withdrawals of gathered movement. There is no true access point of (place) attachment. Naturalism is mimed, in an intimation of landscape. This is a simulation.