The animals are still here. Barely. I paint their environments — glaciers, savannas, rainforests — in full color, vivid and alive. The animals themselves I leave empty. Transparent silhouettes where a body should be. Not ghosts exactly. More like absences that haven’t fully arrived yet. I want you to feel the specific weight of what we are about to lose — not as an abstraction, not as a statistic, but as a shape. A lion-shaped hole in the world.

One of the things I have learned on this journey is that I am continually playing with elements, ideas, and colors. As I experiment and search for my own way to create, many of my works do not belong into a series. This is a collection of those works.

The city stopped. For the first time in my adult life, New York went quiet — and instead of relief I felt the ground disappear. No studio. No streets. No motion to absorb myself in. What I had left was the inside of my own head, which turned out to be larger than I expected. These paintings came from there. Not from observation, not from the streets I usually feed on — from imagination, from the places I needed to exist even if they didn’t. Serene, untouched, far from sirens. I don’t know if they are real places or invented ones. I’m not sure the distinction matters. They kept me sane.

Terra ferma — solid ground. Sailors said it when land appeared after a long crossing. It carried everything: the reason you left, the cost of the journey, the relief of arrival compressed into two words. I know something about crossing. Mine was comfortable by any measure, and I still felt the weight of it. These paintings are about the ones whose crossing is not comfortable. People leaving Syria, Libya, central Africa. Families crossing Central America on foot. Climate refugees watching their land disappear before they do. All of them moving toward something they are not sure exists, because staying has become impossible. I paint them not as victims and not as symbols. As people in motion, carrying what they can, toward solid ground. Because that is what crossing looks like from the inside. This series is not finished. It can’t be — the crossings haven’t stopped.

My inner world is not quiet. These paintings are what it looks like when I stop managing that and just let it move through me onto the canvas. Emotions don’t line up politely — they collide, they contradict, they surface and vanish before I can name them. I paint fast, chasing each one before the next arrives. Some I catch. Some get away. Some paintings end before they’re finished because something else demanded the brush. I don’t consider that a failure. That incompleteness is the most honest thing about them.

These paintings have no agenda. I mixed pigments directly on the canvas and followed where they went — one color bleeding into another, one layer pushing against the next. No concept. No subject. No meaning I put there intentionally. What they reflect is simply where I was when I made them. A state of mind, not a statement. I find that kind of honesty harder to achieve than it sounds.

The city moves too fast to see clearly. I photograph it first, then strip everything away — color, detail, context — until only the essential shapes and gestures remain. What’s left on the raw linen is not the street. It’s the rhythm underneath the street. The thing you feel in your body before your eyes catch up.

An early attempt at organization that taught me organization wasn’t the point. The K numbering — date and sequence — was my effort to impose logic on work that didn’t need it. The illusion was thinking that naming things would clarify them. It didn’t. What these paintings share with Reflections and Emotions is more important than what separates them: they are all the same restless interior voice, painting before it knew what it was.

This is the way I experience the city as walk about it. The energy is stimulating; however, taking in so many inputs at once also brings about a lack of clarity. The images in this series - photographic in origin - are stripped of all that I found unnecessary. They are no longer about representation and they are not about abstraction either. Each is reduced to the few details, shapes and colors which gave my moment stability.

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A window out of the city. That’s all I wanted to make. Something you could walk past in your apartment and briefly be somewhere else — sand, water, open sky, the sound of waves you can almost hear. Not an escape exactly. A pause. Tranquillity is underrated.

What lives in the space between two things — two emotions, two people, two irreconcilable ideas? I wanted to look directly at that sliver. Not the things on either side but the gap itself. Whether it generates friction or whether, if you look carefully enough, you can find harmony there. Maybe both. Maybe that’s the same thing.

Everything flows — Heraclitus said it and I’ve always believed it. These five paintings were made in an afternoon, on the floor, moving fast. I had the Florence Biennale approaching and I needed work. I scrambled. What came out surprised me. The title arrived after, which is how I knew it was right — I hadn’t planned Heraclitus, but there he was. Some of the most honest work happens when you don’t have time to think.

I don’t paint faces from photographs or from life. I paint them from memory — which means I paint what stayed. The dripping layers of latex, enamel, and acrylic do the rest, pulling the image toward something truer than likeness. A face remembered is already an interpretation. These portraits are honest about that. Each one is made in a single session, unstructured, following the paint as much as directing it. What comes out is not who the person looks like. It is who they are to me.