Texture. These are not canvasses. These are stories, and music.
I want to wrap myself into these paintings.
Why not put Japanese paper on canvas? Why not use found fabric (synthetic) as a ground?
Stains, splashes of paint, blood. Lines, as if of a song. Lightness.
Calligraphy without forced meticulous bearing.
The dark red paintings are more somber; they carry an ambiguous nature, material sunken with paint. Washed out, lavish parts with forceful strokes. There’s a history.
If it wasn’t such a loaded term one could say these paintings are rooms for associations. But actually, thee lines don’t need thoughts, references. They are completely self-sufficient; self-assured. There’s lightness, wit at some times. Perhaps these are what you arrive at with complete artistic freedom. Without wanting to please somebody or revolutionize something. And yet they do. Progressing the genre.
From close, the surface speaks of time, of age. The paint has deeply sunk into the paper. Folds. All is where it has to be; seemingly always has been. And then: time doesn’t matter.
The crimson speaks of antiquity. The calligraphy and Japanese paper recall the ancient dynasties. The found fabric (synthetic) the near Western past. (A note to Philipp Guston). Here they all meet. In a statement which needs not to be one anymore.
Porous substratum, fossil remains; thick and heavy. Paint could be the Big Bang.