Eight panels. Twenty-eight inches tall, nearly sixteen feet wide. Read left to right: color at the edge of the wheel moving through the spectrum — yellow at dawn, through the warm hues toward orange at dusk — desaturating steadily until the center arrives at black. The background follows the same direction, shifting in close increments from light to dark. Two circles appear in the same hue. One is brighter than the other.

The letter O comes from the Semitic ayin — eye — and from the Egyptian hieroglyph Wedjat, the Eye of Horus. Horus was a sky god. He carried the sun in his right eye and the moon in his left. When Seth tore out the left eye and shattered it into six pieces, each fragment became a sense — sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, thought — and a fraction. Thoth reassembled them with spit. The reconstituted eye added to 63/64. The missing piece was the glue. The restored eye was dimmer. It became the moon.

The painting is a single orbit. Day moving into night, the bright eye chasing the dim one, neither ever arriving.

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.

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.

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.

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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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.

Not everything I make wants to belong to a series. Some pieces are one-offs — a technical study, a private reference, an idea that showed up once and never asked for a second visit. They don't share a concept. They don't share a technique. What they share is smaller than that: the same hands, the same studio, none of them needing a series to justify existing. I keep them together here because scattering them alone would suggest an isolation none of them actually have.

The same night keeps coming back to me, in different sizes and different moods, but always the same bones: a moon, a line of bare trees, water underneath holding what little light there is. Some of these came from a specific place and moment I remember exactly. Others came from a photograph, or somewhere in between the two — memory doing half the work, image doing the rest. I'm not calling this a series. It's just what happens when I keep returning to the same night.

Before I had language for any of it, this is what came out. Some of it moved fast — emotion straight onto canvas, unmanaged, chasing one feeling before the next arrived. Some of it moved with no plan at all — pigment poured and followed, no concept, no subject, no meaning I put there on purpose. For a while I gave it a system: dates, sequence, a letter and a number, trying to impose order on work that didn't need it. The order didn't clarify anything. It just gave the illusion of one.

Three names, one voice. Restless, interior, not yet sure what it was. Some pieces end before they're finished because something else demanded the brush. I don't consider that a failure. The incompleteness is the most honest part.