"Red" Painting

Look, I could write something profound here about the existential tension between form and chaos, how my acrylics wrestle with oil pastel like two divorced parents fighting over the last slice of pizza at their daughter's seventh birthday party, or how every charcoal line is a desperate attempt to stitch together the fragments of a brain that's been running on caffeine, kid chaos, and questionable life choices for decades. But let's be real: nobody's buying that. Instead, picture this: A farmer from the west side of the northern part of Wisconsin builds a house out of straw and bottle caps because why not? He invents a frog that skydives over airplanes, calculates the exact geometry of lost sheep, and occasionally eats screwdrivers for breakfast. That's closer to what happens in my head when I paint. Titles like "Mark is Devastated at The Loss of His Favorite Pen" or "Howard and the Invisible Line of Standards and New Medication" aren't metaphors—they're just... what showed up. My work is abstract because life doesn't come with neat edges, and contemporary because I'm still figuring out how to be an adult with four kids while pretending the canvas is the only thing that listens. I make these things because the process is the good part: slapping paint, scratching lines, laughing when it looks ridiculous, and sometimes—rarely—it lands somewhere beautiful or weirdly honest. Sales are nice (thanks for the love, you legends), exhibitions are cool (shoutout to Gallery 2622), but mostly it's about bringing something into the world that didn't exist before. Uniquely mine. Probably a little unhinged. Definitely not for everyone. If you're into that—great. Grab a piece. If not, no hard feelings. I'll just keep making more nonsense over here. (And yes, I spell-checked this one. Mostly.)