Thursday, March 18, 2010


My art is made with lots of fire. Though the work looks like it was consumed by flames as a part of its construction, its burnt look is actually produced by a long, tedious, controlled burn. I use a plumber’s torch with a little propane tank. One of my very favorite things to do is to spend a Sunday afternoon torching a painting while listening to the Pogues and drinking black coffee in my garage. In the fall or winter, it is the definition of bliss, almost as good as fucking. The air is crisp and smells wonderful. The heat of the torch warms you up nicely if you’re chilly. In July, it’s still good, but not quite as good. Scalding hot coffee and a handheld torch aren’t quite as magical in July’s oppressive, humid heat. In my more ridiculous moments, I like to think that the discomfort and sweat might actually make the work mean more. Then again, maybe not.

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