Some stuff in this world really pisses me off. The kind everyone shrugs at and calls normal — but it’s anything but normal, and we both know it.
So I paint it. As a fable. With a picture. If I told you straight, you’d nod and forget it by lunch.
A cat climbs into your chest and builds you a heart, because some people walk around hollow their whole lives and never notice. A door gets nailed shut with old boards that say “not today,” and Death, knocking outside, takes the hint and leaves. We eat octopus only because it doesn’t look like us, and we’re going to do the same to AI even though we already know how that ends. A small red dragon pretends to be a green leaf, because that’s what you do when you don’t belong — until you forget you were ever something else.
That’s how it starts. Something gets under my skin, and I turn it into a picture I want to see. Cartoons with teeth.
I could give you the eco answer — acrylic is cleaner than oil, and that’s true. But that’s not why. Oil takes months to dry, and I have a kid and two cats at home. The paints I use are the good stuff — cadmiums, cobalts — and those aren’t going to make anyone healthier sitting around wet for half a year. Acrylic dries in minutes. Coat it with varnish and you can hang it in a kindergarten.
The paintings look incredible in person. I can’t keep my own hands off them when I’m looking at finished work — I always end up touching a corner. The brushwork is hypnotic. It moves, it lives — and acrylic is almost never thick paint. It took me years to learn how to get that. So you need to see them in person — they’re a different thing entirely from the photos. And for that, of course, you need to buy one.