Objects

Playing with fate.

Painting is dead. Long live painting.

An appreciation for industrial design turned navel-gazing sight-gag riffing on Johns’ answer to de Kooning’s put-down. Artists are assholes.

So—as I was working on Truffle for Tesla, I also started one for her 'rents, two of my "count on one hand" friends- and other having much time to work on it I blame myself for the fact that the renovations on their housie are going slowly, so—best get to it! Kathy said she wanted to watch sunsets on the porch... it's time to soften this....

Sublimely silly pocket-sized landscape sculptures, pearls tucked in their shells.

Zooming in on some great industrial design and related culture—chiefly the game of Skully once played on NYC streets with the caps, and the British game played with small lozenges taught me by my mother first played Victorian parlors.

I went out to my besties’ new house—a fixer-upper. I found items that wanted to be art. The three year old hollered "That's not art!" I told her it would be.

Boxies play on the appeal of the wee, of the personal.

Named for the meaning of life given by the supercomputer Deep Thought in Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, 42 takes the stuff through its paces. No more. No less.

An object made amid much discussion of the definition of painting, the accidental marks on the exterior were preserved under varnish, and the interior deliberately altered with paint. The work touches on Oppenheim directly, and Warhol and Guyton obliquely.