Trapped Inside Me
The dunes stripped me down to almost nothing. No noise. No applause. No opening. Just wind pushing against the shack hard enough some nights I thought the walls might give out.
Read →Writing
On painting, collecting, and the practice.
The dunes stripped me down to almost nothing. No noise. No applause. No opening. Just wind pushing against the shack hard enough some nights I thought the walls might give out.
Read →Charles Hawthorne came here in 1899 because it was cheap. The colony didn't die of neglect. It died of success. The very thing the artists created made Provincetown valuable to everyone except the artists.
Read →No announcement. No press release. No wine. Tadhg mounted Baransky on the construction boards outside Governor Bradford's on Commercial Street and showed it to whoever walked by.
Read →Thirteen paintings came out of last winter. All untitled, numbered I through XIII. Oil and acrylic, mixed media on canvas. That is the Concrete Winter series.
Read →Sometimes we painters exist in the very shadows from which our paintings are born. The spotlight shining elsewhere while we focus on the work and breaking through.
Read →Provincetown was an art colony. It is not that anymore. Wealthy men and vanity galleries have pushed out the artists who built this place. That ends now.
Read →The art market rewards early attention. The collectors who bought Basquiat in the early 1980s weren't guessing — they were paying attention in a world that mostly wasn't. That window doesn't stay open forever.
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