The Physical Impossibility of Selling in the Mind of Someone Living Painting

Abstract Pointlessism from a pointless abstractor "I sometimes feel I have something to say, I never want to communicate this." taking doodling seriously, since the get go. Born under a bad sign, next to a world record slag heap, not far from where Paul Hogan would launch his famous larger than life aussie character onto the world stage in the first Crocodile Dundee movie, this escaped aussie, this nomad who never travels but who has never lived in the same town for any length of time, this layer of legends this miser this nob-end this shine on you crazy nightmare. The man known as and legend in his own lunchbox thinks he's so important that he gave up his life to hide away and paint until it means something. It still seems to mean nothing, and the dogs seem pretty disappointed that we don't jet around the globe, taking in French poodles on the Champs Elisses, or at least riding through Paris in a sports car, with the warm wind in our hair. At the age of twenty seven, he realised he needed to go to art college, with the warm self assurance of your normal child prodigy. Trouble was those years between said child prodigy and then. lost, lost, doing stupid things going to med school before flunking out in a championship way, to spend his time on wine women and song, before suddenly waking up as an artist again. The system took him in again a decade later, against their better judgement, and ended up spitting him out with a BA in Visual Arts and a raging workaholism. Ripe for rapid burnout after shooting for the stars, he instead got sidetracked by the wiff of a señorita and ended up deciding to take a leap off the edge of the known world and washed up in Spain. Still here. Paints or draws or masturbates obsessively, every single day. Often puts a month or more of those days into a single small artwork. Considers himself completely insane, but somehow still basically high functioning. Against all odds and inner turmoil he continues to surprise us at each turn, or at least the us that he imagines giving a shit. And not really surprise so much as pity. He says his work is about the inside of his head, which there are no words for. Even if sometimes the artwork is made of words, it's not, let me assure you. Those words are not there, and they express nothing. And that's not as mad as it seems, as nothing is as it seems with this guy.