"somewhere between landscape and spirit"

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© Courtesy of the artist & The Fred Torres Gallery
"somewhere between landscape and spirit"

505 West 28th St.
New York, NY 10001
May 8th, 2014 - June 7th, 2014
Opening: May 8th, 2014 6:00 PM - 9:00 PM



In such a beautiful world today, I exist alongside great rhythm, extraordinary
melody, and an astounding harmony. With such beauty around me, I feel as though my
work is already done as an artist. I believe that my main intention as an artist is to focus
attention on the lovely movements of colors through space and time. The practice that I
utilize to express my outlook on these movements is a simple one, based on intuition and
vision. I employ these two mindsets when I am working and when I experience the world
in general, by rearranging and grouping objects and ideas. My physical work becomes
more about this act than any message I am trying to present, because I feel that in simple,
personal expressions, there can be found the basis of all movement. I believe that I am
uniquely capable of seeing and quickly understanding large currents of objects and ideas
within the world, and am able to act as a mirror to them in a sense. This mimicry
becomes my means of translating my own perceived reality.
The discourse of life and the path of objects and ideas through space and time are my
greatest inspirations. I believe that these inhabit and influence environment, and can be
understood and read. My connections with the various environments that surround me are
very deep and significant, and allow me to cohesively understand my own path through

Grey Mourn

In the deception of the grey mourning,
the horrified population sits waiting -
while gasping wind pronounces warning
to the great, exhausting surrender.
Floating figures stain the horizon’s birth,
in an unspoken awe for it’s hidden truth.
Arguing storm clouds that blanket the Earth
create disbelief seen only in brief youth.

2 sheep sleep
standing and connected
disjointed in their views
walking towards their gods
almost pull apart
their hips are hard
holding even from odds

There was an absence to their yelling,
they were screaming so softly
yet could not be missed.
Could their phantom falling
under the halo streetlight -
that mourned under a violet sky,
go exhaustingly unheard
through the slumbering night.
They were almost dying.
They laid there talking,
their lives

Only bodies
now identified the sprinting ghouls
that ran so far and fast from us.
We missed them, could not catch them
no matter how hard we searched.