Doctor, Doctor Every Night I Dream Your Investigation My Notion

About the show in Berlin: I'm showing paintings as usual, and some multiple exposure photos taken in the subway and in my studio, and some weavings and some collages. Painting, taken on its own hasn't made sense for a while. There's a deep sense of loss in that and in all of my work these days. Call it weight. Of history here, of age....of the history of looking at everything a few degrees from center that has led me out the backdoor and into the street.

Here's the exhibition text I wrote:

“I began to write fiction on the assumption that the true enemies of the novel were plot, character, setting, and theme” – John Hawkes

I make two things at once: a painting that leaves through the studio door, and another that travels down wires and through the air. To never meet again. They participate in completely different narratives, torn apart and raised up by proud nails, drunken revelers, and teenaged bloggers.

The camera and the loom were always part of the act. They were just off stage until now. I erased the syllables of can-vas by weaving and the sound of re-pro-duc-tion by exposing film. Neither need be spoken anymore… the awful quotation marks around the word “painter” took care of that.

I have been called the Hooters of painting. I always thought I was the Brad Dourif. Potato potato.

In this show you’ll get it all.