These images are all stolen. From strangers, google, from friends and family, or even myself. 

I say stolen because these images are indeed property of some kind belonging to someone. If these images are property, then we can assume they maintain some level of materiality, or are indeed objects. While they may be objects, that does not mean that they exist concretely in a 3D sphere. Their subjects once did, or do, but no more. 

It’s my goal, to steal these objects, and give them a physical presence. To take something degraded, and turn it into something pious.  Or, simply, from a digital rectangle to an analog rectangle

A word on painting. Many would find painting to be a retrogressive, if not problematic medium. I wont argue with that. Nevertheless I have arrived at painting. I’ve racked my brain and found a few good reasons why I’ve come to this medium. The first is purely personal; I want to make paintings. I want to recontextualize for myself the act of making a mark on a surface. The second, is a comic choice. I found these images funny, I thought they might be even funnier as paintings. The third is perhaps the most critical. It is the choice of antagonism. I want to antagonize the history of painting. The history of the “cult of mostly male genius” as Steyerl puts it. (After all I’m a terrible painter with little knowledge of its histories and rules wmd absolutely no name recognition) But most of all I want to antagonize the skeptical viewer. The viewer who views painting as retrogressive, problematic. The idea that this work would make those people angry gives me satisfaction. This viewer most likely takes themself way too seriously. after all, all art objects serve little to no practical purpose towards our survival on earth. we must admit, anyone in the position of thinking critically about a piece of art is inescapably privileged. 

This being said, i realize that showing these works on a white wall is truly falling into the same trap I have set out to mock. I am a cis white male artist making paintings. In fact the ideal location of these works would be in a stack or in a pile in some charity thrift store No knowledge of who made it, what it is, or what it is of. 

But, I am human. And with that comes a desire for credit and acceptance.

We are filling a void. Biding our finite time on an increasingly finite world. In the not so distant future our entire history and all forms of life will be gone.

We’re here for a good time not a long time.

“Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.” Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

Art as levity.

Anyone can cook.

— Augie Grahn (unpublished)

“I could not contain the great love I had inside my heart. So I went around the city on a bike to write about love. I wrote on the walls along the train tracks the rivers and bridges. In abandoned buildings and on fancy storefronts in the busy shopping area. To express my love for the beauty of the world. To reflect the light of the sun moon and stars. To honor and pay tribute to the simple beauty of my beloved’s face. To place value on feelings of my heart over the material world. To cover the bricks with precious kisses and sorrowful tears so they too could experience love. To wake the sleeping people of the world with bold satements of love. And the people said that my love was prolific and would go down in history. And they displayed my love all over the evening news. And when they showed the policeman taking me away even he would say that my love was profound. And the judge said so too at my trial when he sentenced me to five years. But my love was so strong that I took it with me to prison. My love was so determined that it would not diminish but always grow. So in my cell I wrote about love… I wrote about love at all costs for it is the noblest cause on earth and is valued accordingly by god in heaven. So I got on my knees and prayed I would purify my love so it wouldn’t cause harm. So the world may receive it. God answered my prayers when a young girl sent me a letter in prison: “I enjoyed reading your poetry all over the city walls. Please write them in a book so they will last.”

— Daniel Joseph Montano