heyo. pretty cool you showed up here.
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→ i have no art
→ like dada kissed an existentialist and fell in love with light in time as the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be 
#nadadada
i don't particularly believe in the fidelity of images, like, i know that flowers exist but images yo exist? i mean did you even see that. |
hey so. you might not be here.
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we all live in an abstract submarine
storm at sea (hits the reef)
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blanco river (weeping for wimberley)
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out of the blue (& into the pink)
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+ nada dada manifest0
After three frenzied days of looting monotonous postmodern primitivism, we write a manifesto that begins to flourish in the heat of a heart of words, dada.
Revolution without beginning, having invented the greatest cultural nada on the basis of a supreme supernatural force. Government ministries and agencies run aground as looters stuff their pockets with obsolete futures.
“All gone, all gone.” she said, “All gone in seven days.”
The actual point is infinity and in principle we are against manifestos, rifles, pistols, axes, knives, and clothing, as well as emboldened soldiers, exquisite brutes, queens and princesses, beauty, gold, silver and copper, rocket-propelled grenades, and creative exploding devices. Accepting reality means we must sweep and clean vowels and consonants constantly while smashing typography and ceramic rhymes to an ignominious end, ringing with z noisy noisy explosions, boomboom.
Possessing profound gravity, several thousand of the marauders organize prose into a new currency, slipping along the line but never quite writing.
Among flames, lucid and clear, troops arrive to quell the looting and storm the museum grounds. There is the bouquet of a phantom in minutes. Though each thing has its word locked in a glass display case like irrefutable evidence, some thousands of years old, words are tapestry fragments and can be smashed like ivory figurines. Everyone dances to our own personal world and we are in them all,
among the band of looters.
In this latest appearance of dada we are seeing being destroyed in front of our eyes, the word itself preserved for safekeeping, boomboom.
After three frenzied days of looting monotonous postmodern primitivism, we write a manifesto that begins to flourish in the heat of a heart of words, dada.
Revolution without beginning, having invented the greatest cultural nada on the basis of a supreme supernatural force. Government ministries and agencies run aground as looters stuff their pockets with obsolete futures.
“All gone, all gone.” she said, “All gone in seven days.”
The actual point is infinity and in principle we are against manifestos, rifles, pistols, axes, knives, and clothing, as well as emboldened soldiers, exquisite brutes, queens and princesses, beauty, gold, silver and copper, rocket-propelled grenades, and creative exploding devices. Accepting reality means we must sweep and clean vowels and consonants constantly while smashing typography and ceramic rhymes to an ignominious end, ringing with z noisy noisy explosions, boomboom.
Possessing profound gravity, several thousand of the marauders organize prose into a new currency, slipping along the line but never quite writing.
Among flames, lucid and clear, troops arrive to quell the looting and storm the museum grounds. There is the bouquet of a phantom in minutes. Though each thing has its word locked in a glass display case like irrefutable evidence, some thousands of years old, words are tapestry fragments and can be smashed like ivory figurines. Everyone dances to our own personal world and we are in them all,
among the band of looters.
In this latest appearance of dada we are seeing being destroyed in front of our eyes, the word itself preserved for safekeeping, boomboom.
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Boomboom soaked in gasoline, decomposition.
Everything, every shapeless invention, ( boom boom . ( carried away by the looters to the artists who are waiting at the edge of perception, always writing Around |
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Working outdoors between a garden bed and a chicken coop, I use time, weather, and organic matter to create encaustic and oil abstract work. Intense weathering and repeated building/destruction of the surface captures time in passing, simultaneously degrading notions of a proper picture plane and gently mocking the cult of the image.
These are not paintings. These are temporal objects. |
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The fidelity of images, statements, bodies, or time is not trustworthy . There are already enough fictions in life and so the creation of more representations, pictures, or images is superfluous and totally unnecessary. An existential vulture could accomplish far more by pulling apart representations as a means to pick away at the artifice of perception. I paint pictures so that I may wipe away the memory of the picture.
(I destroy images.) There are no illusions present. To accomplish this dissolution, my work relies on physically building up and degrading the surface over a long period of time, with force, again and again. While brushes and paint are as familiar with my art as hammers, sandpaper and gasoline, time and nature are far more familiar with my art than my own hand and my own mind. This art spends most of the time outside, hanging from trees, buried in garden beds and resting on rooftops, shaped by sun, soil, foliage, wind, rain, and that absolute Texas summer heat. Currently I am reintroducing representational images back into my work. These representations will be utilized as a means of furthering my argument that images do not exist. I will render the images nonexistent, before your very eyes. |
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re: main ing
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mind
we mind minding the depths of our minds or perhaps we do not mind? i try to mind but minding takes practice takes some practice takes some practice takes some practice our mind, works on practicing do you ever practice minding? do you damn well mind? fucking practice. practice minding. keep that in mind. i'll remind you to mind re mind mind ing re main ing mind mine mind i mind we mind all mind it's cool, i don't really mind. no true mind all true mind wild, right? hard to wrap my mind around that true story no dimn mind minding |
↑ Marcel Duchamp ↑
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today’s headlines
we heard the news we read the history books. we pursued all the history not yet spoke. we discovered all the news not yet published. ¿destroyed? I think we have a problem. → it’s gettin’ kinda hectic what does it mean it does not who it is does not was were those things, those beautiful stupid gone THINGS lovely, we say. really fuqin' lovely. we were once destroyed, & really quite beautiful, |
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Artist Statement, Cut-up, East Side
Idiosyncratic and intuitive language unique to each particular persona participates in a world so that we become a working metaphor enrolled in roles that are created for us all one. We are interested in art as small creatures or obscure objects. Research using several modes of obsolete inquiry as an expression of presence reflects a beginning idea of nada, reconstructing common themes up to and including the direct implication of a viewer in our work, through blatant skyscapes to an intimate unique nude approach. This is not a staged dance captured on film, rather within this world’s spatial relationships a moment capturing our interest gets brutally beat down with an effort to explore the thoughtful raw process. Our practice is an exploration of those known and unknown relationships, time, an interplay between created visual impacts. Our work investigates painting as dada, replete with punk. Our intent is for our viewers, with their endless streams of prominent conversations, to document an abundance, frequently playing key roles in our work, not superimposed but instead cut, distorted. This art delicately touches themes of investigations of well known static displays as determined by driving head on at full tilt into robust environments, rhythms, and transitions. Our practice explores relationships between nonlinear figurative fragments for a time being, including how we are a collective and individual cultural unity riot. This is our beloved, curiously drawn to an edge of existentialism, an embodiment of our feelings at the moment of a torn paper. To come back to the site of our work generally focuses on a progression of the deterioration of dimensionality. Relationships between frequent themes copulating often include a collage of cultural histories. Connect with this work, identity and perception. We find beauty in aspects of a universe giving powerful voice to each of our paintings and unconditional love. Our compositions represent no singularity, perhaps due to a vulnerability of that particular ideal. We experiment with time, often, |
[ Re: process
These words are extracted from artist statements in the 2015 Catalog for the East Austin Studio tour. The statements were cut with scissors into snippets and placed into a ball jar, mixed, randomly drawn, and recorded. Next up, the words were wrung → the editing process, w/cuts + additions.
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artist statement no. 42
i don't want to say anything and I want that to be my statement. Now i can't say that since then we did. And when we began to paint again, the war still carried on. And here we are: in, of, & out of time; destroyed, & carrion, carrying on. Again, now. → at the end of the day art is the light we see and what light in our life plays upon ~ ( |
indigo minding
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never gonna walk alone
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rising sun
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55.
A colour 'shines' in its surroundings. (Just as eyes only smile in a face.) Wittgenstein Remarks on Colour |
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Simmering
Dead grass blood on stone, sand in our raw skin, saltwater. Watermelon flesh.
Engines expand improbable in heat yet keep on moving anyhow, somehow now.
Body alive, heat rising.
Turn up the volume on this song to match
a volume of our sun shining.
Cicadas. Grasshoppers. Swim in humid wilderness.
Sprint through dusty canyons. Picnic on hot dreams.
Paper wasps, yellow jackets.
Turn up our volume. Don't talk so much.
Take heat from shade, shade heat, stone sun,
stone bone to hot sun, son. Daughters bloom.
Live to dream in a beauty of heat.
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I like to 📣 that I am a mixed🛠media post🛠modern artist but I primarily 🎨 encaustic abstracts out🏞 because I am a naked + expressive hedonist who worships 🌞 and is in 💓 with the scent of melted 🐝wax and 🌳 sap.
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wow
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been dead already (true story)
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Years ago I hung a painting entitled “been dead already”. At least that’s what I call it now. This painting’s had many different names over the years. In the beginning, I believed in Permanence. While I could not articulate the reason at the time, I thought that an object was the thing that I was looking at in that particular moment, that it would always be that same object. I figured that things and objects and statements needed to be saved and recorded and preserved and objects are what we name them. I believed in a linear history in which the present moment is all that exists and a work of art is only an end product.
In 1998, when I began working on “been dead already”, I knew living quickly and I believed in punk rock. Aside from that there was not much else I consciously knew or trusted. I created the painting’s original body in two 30 minute work sessions. In the studio I poured down orange and red encaustic to collage drawings of a young woman. In the second session I set the painting on fire with gasoline. The flash fire of gasoline was hot enough and fast enough that the wax surface floated and began to flow just enough to create a sense of movement without pouring off the edge of the wooden surface. I gave the painting a title and called the work finished. “been dead already” remained like that for a few years until my finances wore out enough that I struggled to keep up with bills, let alone keep up with the cost of fresh art supplies. Initially I was stuck and did not paint, but soon discovered dada. With a loosening of my sense of Art, I began to rework my art with found objects using anything I had on hand. For “been dead already” I adhered translucent red and yellow plastic to the surface with small nails. Later, I removed the plastic and set the surface on fire again. A slower fire now. The drawings gradually burned and I began letting go of the idea that art is a finished object. |
Time passed and a new drawing replaced the girl; a self portrait. A year later I covered the surface with a dense layer of red cadmium. I cut an image, a grinning skeleton skull out of an acrylic painting and screwed it into the painting. I was having a conversation with my art, about this life, as I went on living and painting.
A move to California made my art fresh again. I started college and had the resources to acquire fresh art supplies. I made new art. For my old art, like “been dead already”, this meant a new process that would evolve into something integral to my art today- weathering. Initially, I buried the painting. Later, I dug it up and moved it to the roof. For the next few years, weather did all of the work. First in California’s kind weather, then in Florida’s complex weather. Here, the painting met with the wet, stormy weather of hurricane season. Eventually, I was able to bring the work indoors. As the painting began to dry out I watched the surface decompose. The self portrait's paper shrunk inward, cracked, peeled apart, flaked off. The red surface grew darker and darker until it all turned to black.
Painting by lantern late one night, I laid red and white paint into the heart of the work. I wasn’t sure if it was done, but I knew that I did not want to work on it anymore. “been dead already” was my own “Picture of Dorian Gray”, yet I was unaware I had been watching myself age. Time passed without my realizing it, without a recognition of my own self portrait in “been dead already”. In contrast, the art I create now is meant to capture the passing of time, particularly the b-theory of time. The b-theory of time stipulates that “been dead already” is all of the moments in time in which it exists. The work is not the object I named it once I finished painting it. “been dead already” is simultaneously existing through all of the time that it has been and is.
A move to California made my art fresh again. I started college and had the resources to acquire fresh art supplies. I made new art. For my old art, like “been dead already”, this meant a new process that would evolve into something integral to my art today- weathering. Initially, I buried the painting. Later, I dug it up and moved it to the roof. For the next few years, weather did all of the work. First in California’s kind weather, then in Florida’s complex weather. Here, the painting met with the wet, stormy weather of hurricane season. Eventually, I was able to bring the work indoors. As the painting began to dry out I watched the surface decompose. The self portrait's paper shrunk inward, cracked, peeled apart, flaked off. The red surface grew darker and darker until it all turned to black.
Painting by lantern late one night, I laid red and white paint into the heart of the work. I wasn’t sure if it was done, but I knew that I did not want to work on it anymore. “been dead already” was my own “Picture of Dorian Gray”, yet I was unaware I had been watching myself age. Time passed without my realizing it, without a recognition of my own self portrait in “been dead already”. In contrast, the art I create now is meant to capture the passing of time, particularly the b-theory of time. The b-theory of time stipulates that “been dead already” is all of the moments in time in which it exists. The work is not the object I named it once I finished painting it. “been dead already” is simultaneously existing through all of the time that it has been and is.
i'll fly away in the morning
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I've got a restless soul that can be traced back to my early childhood in Southern California and East Texas. While all the other kids were busy playing games, I'd spend countless hours on swings or in the tops of trees watching the birds and daydreaming that I could fly away with them to wherever they were going. That sense of restless wonder never left and I've spent the last four decades moving to & fro between California, Texas, and Florida. My home in Austin, like many places I've lived, is very close to the airport. I enjoy watching the steady flow of airplanes coming and going, knowing that each plane is full of people, all with their own unique motivations and destinations. That sense of restless wonder is captured with a flock of small paintings. I love watching these paintings fly away, leaving me to wonder where they’ve taken off to.
Now, where to? To nowhere? Where to now?
nowhere to now
nowhere to now
i don't terribly enjoy statements
and i recognize that images are not real things
objects are not becoming
i do not believe art exists.
i believe existing
and none of that is true as all positive not knotted
and i recognize that images are not real things
objects are not becoming
i do not believe art exists.
i believe existing
and none of that is true as all positive not knotted
