I Am Hunting, You Are Hunted.
over 1000 2x2 inch paintings for a show at The Launch Pad gallery in 2010
Miniature Paintings In The “I Am Hunting You Are Hunted Series”
I began painting miniatures a few years ago when I was snowed in for three weeks, in the Gorge where I live, in a house that I built with my partner. I was surprised by how big the spaces got and how my interest was held. I was even more surprised at how it felt to have ten of them. When I had painted one hundred of them I knew that something was happening. I have continued. I set a goal of 1000 for this show. I am now up to 1116 in my possession. That does not count the ones that I have sold, gifted, lost or the one that my friend found on the street outside his office one day on the sidewalk. Someone had stolen it and then lost it. These paintings are like little animals dissected, ground score fruit, honeycomb from my hives, naps. I am seeking them out and to finish one is to kill it and make it ready for consuming. “YOU” signifies not me, but does it really mean you? And what is “not me”? What is being hunted? I ask you to repeat you in your head fifty times and see how that makes you feel. You you you you you you you you you you you you……… Is it a chant, a cry of an animal, or the sound of something whizzing by your head? Close your eyes and feel it. What do you see? I see what I paint. I paint what I see. I paint you.
You are…. One thousand tiny worlds. In the beginning. Blocks of wood. Small illusions presented to be measured. I am flying through star nebula looking for the center of my discomfort. Playing with a live deck of cards. Keys to little worlds. Friends in my pockets. Ears and horns. Strange technology. Possible futures. Improbable picnics. Combined genetics. Science fiction. Tarot. Sacred texts leading to undiscovered science. Inedible foods. Short arms. Shells and wings. We are insects and Teeth need no sharpening. Wounds. Decapitation. Sweaters made from blood that is actually clean and cozy. My insides have become my outsides. Battles in the sky. Music made from live animals. Photos from the future. Tube worm sonatas. A red squid you can dance with. Shadow people angels are for atheists. Funny ducks distracting horned schoolboys. Erections. Fire breathing pandas arguing semantics. Softness. Serene heads of sexy things. Red dotted lands emptied of critters. Space ships. Vicious queens being presented with bloody bunnies. Normal animals. Twins. Snail dancers. Creatures on a cliff. Sentient objects grouping. Owl leather. Robot factories. Heads. Lots of heads. Temples to heads. Floating heads. Bowling with bubblegum. Lone house under a hill peopled by conjoined twins. Solitary fruit. Boats. Cyborg café. Buttons on long coats. Toothy small critters in the yellow grass. Rats playing trumpets. A green haze with a lone wispy flower. Eskimo. Eskimo. Inuit. My cloak has teeth and I am being tickled by worms. Red windows. The roots of the tree in my stomach hide little people who tell me useful information that I cannot share with you verbally. She has a metal helmet on her head that keeps out the voices. Bring your space suit to space. Your hands are attached to your shoulder blades and have been mistaken for wings.
I am hunting. You are hunted. Protect this. Guard this. Wait here. Sit down. Look at this. I invite you in to my tiny house on the sharpened edge.
I began painting miniatures a few years ago when I was snowed in for three weeks, in the Gorge where I live, in a house that I built with my partner. I was surprised by how big the spaces got and how my interest was held. I was even more surprised at how it felt to have ten of them. When I had painted one hundred of them I knew that something was happening. I have continued. I set a goal of 1000 for this show. I am now up to 1116 in my possession. That does not count the ones that I have sold, gifted, lost or the one that my friend found on the street outside his office one day on the sidewalk. Someone had stolen it and then lost it. These paintings are like little animals dissected, ground score fruit, honeycomb from my hives, naps. I am seeking them out and to finish one is to kill it and make it ready for consuming. “YOU” signifies not me, but does it really mean you? And what is “not me”? What is being hunted? I ask you to repeat you in your head fifty times and see how that makes you feel. You you you you you you you you you you you you……… Is it a chant, a cry of an animal, or the sound of something whizzing by your head? Close your eyes and feel it. What do you see? I see what I paint. I paint what I see. I paint you.
You are…. One thousand tiny worlds. In the beginning. Blocks of wood. Small illusions presented to be measured. I am flying through star nebula looking for the center of my discomfort. Playing with a live deck of cards. Keys to little worlds. Friends in my pockets. Ears and horns. Strange technology. Possible futures. Improbable picnics. Combined genetics. Science fiction. Tarot. Sacred texts leading to undiscovered science. Inedible foods. Short arms. Shells and wings. We are insects and Teeth need no sharpening. Wounds. Decapitation. Sweaters made from blood that is actually clean and cozy. My insides have become my outsides. Battles in the sky. Music made from live animals. Photos from the future. Tube worm sonatas. A red squid you can dance with. Shadow people angels are for atheists. Funny ducks distracting horned schoolboys. Erections. Fire breathing pandas arguing semantics. Softness. Serene heads of sexy things. Red dotted lands emptied of critters. Space ships. Vicious queens being presented with bloody bunnies. Normal animals. Twins. Snail dancers. Creatures on a cliff. Sentient objects grouping. Owl leather. Robot factories. Heads. Lots of heads. Temples to heads. Floating heads. Bowling with bubblegum. Lone house under a hill peopled by conjoined twins. Solitary fruit. Boats. Cyborg café. Buttons on long coats. Toothy small critters in the yellow grass. Rats playing trumpets. A green haze with a lone wispy flower. Eskimo. Eskimo. Inuit. My cloak has teeth and I am being tickled by worms. Red windows. The roots of the tree in my stomach hide little people who tell me useful information that I cannot share with you verbally. She has a metal helmet on her head that keeps out the voices. Bring your space suit to space. Your hands are attached to your shoulder blades and have been mistaken for wings.
I am hunting. You are hunted. Protect this. Guard this. Wait here. Sit down. Look at this. I invite you in to my tiny house on the sharpened edge.