The Aesthetic of High Lonesome:
Chicago, 1956: Seven years old. Low rumbles of thunder invade my pillow. Tree branches scratch the windows.
Lightening, flashing in cycles against the white curtains . . . draws me uncontrollably into the night rain. Hum from transformers on wood poles charges the wet air. Soaked leaves fill the gutters and coat the ground. Streaks of rain and circular patches of pavement are lit by towering street lamps. Luminous orange windows make closed houses look like alien bunkers. A fine cold dampness penetrates my clothes. This empty three-in-the-morning street is my true home. That frail boy walking in the shadows is the finer me.
NYC, 2009: Remembering when the world was still and dark. Imagining the first light - the first rhythmic sounds - the first hole dug in the ground -- the first woven sticks, the first burial. I create images of that which man has always made; symbols of the invisible. Symbols of symbols. Symbols of no time.
Beneath these symbols I embed expanding chains of associations, which cascade the viewer’s mind - to the first cause.
I make pictures that re-present streams of light falling on objects . . . of light emitted by objects . . . of light reflected by objects . . . of light reflected in the eyes of the observer.
