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Painting Within the Fabric of the World (excerpt)

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I can’t tell which was laid first, in the transparent puddling of watery paint dye. The colors determine what walks forward and what recedes, not in relief, but in simultaneity. Sometimes the yellow looks like it’s coming from behind, the light breaking through in refractions of night. Purples and pink, olive and ruddy shit, warm tawned brown, terracotta, the browns of night time walks down the hallway, like the peach lamp reflected on my white painted door. Glowing purple rooms with strangle blue eyes, floating and doubled.

The eyes and breasts are the tender openings, the heart openings.

Sense organs that become color organs, pulsing through the surface, they are both skin and dome, full and aerial.

These paintings are generous. Like the kind of generous that you need at the end of a long day, a celebration of your corporeality, your body’s miraculous ability to remain sensate. The paintings are like bodies themselves, absorptive and a little awkward, shapes bloopy and warm.

A way of painting that takes hold of you by the waist and undoes the pretense you wound up during the day, with humor and serious vitality, they untie you. They make you laugh. First in your chest, and then bubbling up in your belly, you find out that your belly is where your face has been, all along.

That is to say that the paintings echo in the body and the body welcomes them.
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