12"x18" oil on canvas •••I seem to be running out of Chucks to paint. The Logans only have 2,362 pairs of them, so I think it might be time to acquire more. Oh, the sacrifices an artist must make.
12"x18" oil on panel•••(8 process shots below.)I did not even know I had the process shots you see below. The memory of shooting them had exited the empty building that is my cranium. If I had not digitally stumbled upon them, they would still be hidden away. • I guess the big surprise is not that I forgot shooting them or that I was lucky enough to come upon them by accident. The big surprise is that I shot them at all. • When I paint, I paint. I do not do other things. I might take a drink of water and I may cuss and spit a bit, but I consider cussing and spitting part of the painting process. (Actually, I do not spit—it's a disgusting habit.) So, the existence of these photos is a complete mystery to me. • Wait a minute... I just had a thought. There is a being who floats around here, going in and out at will—quieter than a mouse and more graceful than a gazelle. AND, this being has an iPhone. • Criminy! I should never have given The Spousal Unit that dang iPhone.
12"x18" oil on canvas•••It is a universal truth that donuts just make you happy. I have encountered people who do not like donuts, but they are definitely in the minority on the issue. • And yes, another universal truth also states that donuts can make you fat. But we won't go into that. Let's just run with the happy concept. I like happy. • Of course, the above listed maxims have absolutely nothing to do with my paintings. I do not know if my paintings make you happy, but I am pretty darn sure they will not make you fat.
12"x18" oil on canvas•••As is my usual practice, I hurled a lot of paint at this piece. Along with all that hurling is a fair amount of what I can only describe as flicking. Flicking is when my knife catches on something, bends, then snaps back to shape. It is a healthy by-product of the violent manner in which I paint. Flicking often results in paint joyously flying about the studio, landing in all directions and distances from my easel. I have found it on the studio's vaulted ceiling, 8 feet behind me, and in places and at distances that seem to defy physics. It can also end up on me. Sometimes it feels like the painting is fighting back—I am, after all, slashing at it with knives. Maybe the canvas feels threatened and is just acting in self-defense. When anthropomorphic thoughts like that cross over my four remaining brain cells, I know it is time to give them a rest.