Mixing The Colors of Chaos

There’s an inescapable feeling in the air: everything in the world seems to be in total upheaval. Change is accelerating at breakneck speed, and no one is immune to it. Reality itself feels like it’s bending under the pressure of this influx of novelty brought on by the AI revolution. It’s becoming harder and harder to know what’s real unless we witness it firsthand. What once felt like comforting escapism through our screens now often feels like a brazen con.

The chasm between the passive consumer and the active witness or creator widens by the millisecond.

In the art world, the debate around the relevance of AI-generated work rages on—but the genie is out of the bottle, the toothpaste is out of the tube, and there’s no going back. We’re plunging at terminal velocity into something none of us fully understands. It’s in the midst of this epochal shift that my oil painting practice has emerged. I can’t help but feel a strange, unreasoning sense of destiny around it. Maybe it’s my Gen X/Elder Millennial vantage point that makes me feel like I’m offering something people don’t have a frame of reference for—but I often feel like an emissary for the grounding power of the ancient medium of oil on canvas.

And it’s not just about the medium. I’ve spent decades poring over dusty texts, ancient ideas, and forgotten practices in pursuit of something ephemeral—a philosopher’s stone, a code that ties everything together. Time is just a sensory experience, a human measurement of something inherently transitory. The ancients said you never step into the same river twice—or even once—and that’s exactly what we’re living: trying to make sense of a process far greater than any of us, regardless of status, bank account, or state of mind.

For me, the Rosetta Stone that bridges past, present, and future is the canvas. I know this because when I stand before a completed work at scale, it’s the only time I am fully present—and I know I’m not alone in that.

Step into the Metropolitan Museum and stand before a Klimt. If you allow yourself, you’ll be fully present. You’ll remember that moment when you pass from this life to the next.

It’s the weight of that truth, that responsibility, that drives me—even when I’m pulling out my own teeth, when I forgo comfort, when I bleed and weep under duress. Because nothing matters more than delivering what I was born to make.

In my private life, I’ve endured setbacks, betrayals, and humiliations—but they’ve refined me. They’ve shaped the message I pour into my work. A message that can’t be captured in clever words—it can only be painted.

I hope you receive the message.
It’s my love letter to life itself.