Oils on 40 x 40 cm stretched canvas (web store).
Always the secretary, never the demolitionist,
I catch the crumbling world’s bouquet.
Perhaps bearing witness is all the mission is.
Not a fearless leader to check in with today.
Oils on 40 x 40 cm stretched canvas (web shop).
After Adrienne Rich’s “Women” and Chekhov’s Three Sisters.
We are three like and fitted flames flickering on the fit-tossed sea.
People watch us from ashore, tossing up and down, glowing less and more.
They stretch out in our desires for a foreign shore.
One of us wears black, seeks light and love, confesses all, cries easily,
longs but does not: act, hope, pray to some great director above.
She is drinking away Moscow, has not enough gall to go, makes her heart measly.
Another wears red, but feels her young blood already faded, marriage jaded.
She is giving away the wardrobe and the rooms, keeping papers graded.
She is too practical for Moscow, feels her time already traded.
The third sister is a yellow flame, pale and bright.
Her happy animal body knows how to dance in the light.
She plans to refuse its demands, force herself farther from delight.
As if to get to Moscow, we must only work, denying sleep and play.
As if the waves get there by crashing, smashing the light of day.
But flames on the sea keep glowing by reflecting light in spray.
Some days we are already there, although the sea never carried us home.
We had to do it ourselves, vagabonding, though we never meant to roam.
It happened that the currents helped us along, as time passed
and our own shores were wrong.
Our own shores were no longer ours.
So reaching Moscow became within our powers.
This week U.K. Home Secretary Amber Rudd approved Lauri Love’s extradition to the U.S. to face charges for his alleged hacktivism in digital recognition of Aaron Swartz. This decision is alarming as it places a vulnerable person in mortal danger, violating the Human Rights Act. It’s also alarming because Lauri is a tech thought leader who stands for freedom of expression, association, and conscience.
“Anonymous Love,” oils on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas (web store).
Please write your U.K. MP and donate to Lauri’s Courage Foundation legal defense fund. Following on my previous successful painting auction for his defense fund, I’m offering a special discount on everything in my online shop for the next 14 days—when you donate 250 euros or more to Lauri’s defense. Email for details.
Oils on 50 x 50 cm stretched canvas (web store).
Memo to the Department of Fantasy Fulfillment:
Today on The Science Creative Quarterly I explain how mass surveillance programs hurt security—and how next-generation polygraph (“lie detector”) programs that are one example of such programs have been recently field-tested in the U.S. and Europe for mass screenings at border checkpoints. To prevent the widespread adoption of these programs harming security, protect innocent people including millions of future climate refugees from being subjected to such technologies, and have more fun at festivals by bringing something more of my own to the party, I propose to develop the Naked Polygraph. The Naked Polygraph Project involves figuring out how these things work, breaking them, and showing others how to break them. This fantasy project has the following fantasy needs…
Lafayette (LX) 5000 Polygraph System (federal standard), including seat and foot pads
Other polygraphs of similar class, analogue and digital
– Lafayette’s primary competitor is Stoelting.
The Department of Homeland Security’s FAST (Future Attribute Screening Technology) toys
The National Center for Border Security and Immigration’s AVATAR (Automated Virtual Agent for Truth Assessments in Real-Time)
Manuals for such equipment
Documents relating to use of such equipment
– My encrypted contact info is on my about page.
– My experience working with this sort of material includes National Science Foundation-supported Doctoral Dissertation research, collaboration on a national investigative series, NSF postdoctoral research, and making Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) history.
Extra ropes for tying people up when the polygraph does not satisfy.
Shut down all the polygraph programs in the world End mass surveillance Not get killed Reconcile self to the dominance of corrupt rent-seeking élites
Make fun of “lie detection” in an evidence-based, fun way that eventually empowers people to learn how these things really work
Create the evidence that might prevent widespread adoption of next-generation polygraph technologies that would harm security and innocent people alike
Create the evidence for others to establish legal precedent making that prevention last a few generations because we have other stuff to do
This is not a counter-intelligence project. I am not a spy or a terrorist, despite what the then-General Counsel of the American Polygraph Association called to tell me the Department of Defense thinks. The Naked Polygraph Project is an independent, non-partisan, translational art + science + human rights project that seeks to prove and raise awareness of flaws in technologies that may be abused to deprive people of human rights including privacy, movement, and asylum. Unlike previous polygraph critics who have recently gone to jail for allegedly teaching counter-measures to people who planned to lie to federal agents, we intervene before hackers, scientists, and other at-risk groups agree to talk to feds at all.
Published today on The Science Creative Quarterly.
Since I feel like this short online essay actually culminates years of research (quite by accident), I feel compelled to reiterate the usual social truth of such things: all the mistakes are mine and all the right stuff took a lot of help from my friends. I have so many people to thank for supporting me in continuing my work—even as what that means continues to evolve. It is with warm gratitude that I recognize and celebrate my friends at Hack42 in Holland where my artist residency has given me so much inspiration, Osaka University in Japan where presenting this research-in-progress at their American Studies Seminar last spring as an Emerging Scholar helped me have faith in its importance and see where it could improve, and the hacker, artist, and other scenes in Berlin that feed my heart and mind so well. I also remain grateful for the following research funding sources that supported parts of this and other related research—a National Science Foundation Postdoctoral Fellowship, NSF Doctoral Dissertation Research Improvement Grant, University of Virginia Raven Society Fellowship, UVA Society of Fellows Fellowship, Louise and Alfred Fernbach Award for Research in International Relations, and William McMeekin, Michael & Andrea Leven, and Bernard Marcus Institute for Humane Studies Fellowships—and to particularly thoughtful and engaging partners in dialogue Rop Gonggrijp, Arjen Kamphuis, Jos Weyers, and Ken Alder in this post-doctoral phase; George Klosko, Sidney Milkis, and Nick Winter in dissertation-land; Robert Fatton, Michele Claibourn, and Stephen Fienberg in my early graduate research and beyond; and Clay Ford, my stats buddy and fellow-traveller into the brave new world of Bayes throughout.
100 x 120 cm oils on stretched canvas (web store). The sun is coming up in Berlin.
Oils on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas (web store). Celebrates the Pope’s Revenge (a visual effect where the sun hits Berlin’s communist-built TV tower, or Fernsehturm, forming a cross of light), the role of the church in East German resistance, and the way in which religious institutions, cultures, and rituals can give us sanctioned frames for unsanctioned, biologically underpinned experiences that can in turn lead to changes in social norms on a vast scale (Sapolsky).
This is an essay on how I’m not voting this Tuesday in what some call an historic U.S. Presidential election, even though I hold American citizenship—and a Ph.D. in American Politics. I wrote it on Nov. 2 (All Souls’ Day), and decided it was unpublishable in the current climate. Then I re-read Noelle-Neumann on the “spiral of silence” and re-listened to “Sound of Silence” (a few dozen times). Noelle-Neumann theorized that fear of isolation and other isolating reprisals (such as loss of job, professional network, friends, housing, education…) would tend to keep most people silent once the terms of the discourse are set, especially if the discussion has an emotional, moral tone—and most people disagree with what is being said. This creates a spiral of silence wherein the powerful can set the terms of the discourse by speaking first, because reasonable people might then be afraid to say what they think.
Basically, Simon & Garfunkel—as usual—were right: “ ‘Fools’ said I, ‘You do not know./ Silence like a cancer grows.’ ”
It first occurred to me that I was a Romanian hacker—like Guccifer, the guy who helped expose Hillary Clinton’s use of a private email server for classified information—on the last day of Día de Muertos, All Soul’s Day, seven days before the U.S. Presidential election of—well, to be honest, we don’t know yet, it’s just occurred to me today. I’m fantasizing about what it will feel like when it comes, if it comes to pass. But today is not meant for fantasizing about the future. Today is for commemorating the dead, especially in one’s family.
Most of them are strangers to me, as is always the case, but moreso. My grandparents lived in Florida when I was growing up in Alabama—or so I think, having lost contact early on—and had all died by the time I was twelve or thirteen. What they failed to leave me in inheritance, family history, and apparent genetic longevity, they made up for in having been demonstrably European. My mother’s family is no help, being in turns British, Welsh, Dutch, and Scottish—mostly outside the current Schengen Area of freedom to move, live, and work in most of Western Europe. Besides, they were Protestants who were not chased off the Continent by Stalin, Hitler, or their shadows. But my father’s family took enough shit to be of possible use.
After fleeing persecution for being Jewish in Poltava (now in Ukraine) and Romania—making me possibly eligible for European citizenship today—at least some of them must have settled in New York City. Growing up in the Bronx, my granddad must have seen enough poverty and suffering to become a card-carrying Communist in the McCarthy Era. That’s what the New York University archive of his papers suggests, documenting his journey to Spain to fight Franco and fascism in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, the first racially integrated military unit in American history. It was before the U.S. decided World War II was on, so risking your life to fight fascism was illegal. The adventure cost Abraham Lincoln Brigade veterans dearly. They were blacklisted.
So was I. Twice. The first time, when I was 20, was after the CIA had offered me a job as a counter-terrorism analyst. They subjected me to three lie detector tests that violated equal opportunity law—interrogating me about stuff like my loyalty to the President, sexuality, and sexual history—and then lied to Congress about not letting me file an equal opportunity complaint. I proved it in documents I later contributed to a national investigative series. But McClatchy later took down their polygraph cloud documents from the series, and my former Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) lawyer took down the documents we had obtained during my years of graduate research on technology and bias. Both sets of documents came down around the same time as my second blacklisting. I also fired my FOIA lawyer, in a conversation during which he called me sweetheart (I told him to stop), refused to use encryption when I asked, and laughed when we talked about how I might get killed, around that time—but he pretended not to notice.
I had changed my name and moved cross-country twice without telling anyone in my family. No one noticed except my mother, who I had fallen out with when she changed the locks on the house we shared when I attempted to move out after taking care of her for ten years. I haven’t seen my father in over 20 years. It’s not complicated. My family needs to be trapped in a spa together on really good drugs and talk out some shit. But they never will. And the fact that I’m willing to talk doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. So it took nearly a year and a half after getting on a plane with a backpack with no plans to return to the U.S., for it to occur to me that I might not have to worry about my visa to remain in Europe until I’ve lived in Berlin long enough to apply for permanent residency or citizenship. I might be eligible for citizenship where these nice dead people I never knew and know nothing about came from.
It’s a bittersweet realization in the context of the ongoing refugee crisis. It seems a cruel irony that I might be able to attain with a piece of paper from people I never knew, the European citizenship that thousands of people die every year trying to get in line for. But such reflection is itself a luxury. I would like to legally have a right to live and work where I live and work, beyond the temporary relief of living visa to visa. Without that right or that visa, I would find myself adrift again in the world—perhaps on a plane to Southeast Asia to teach English and volunteer-stay in hostels, or otherwise bouncing between being here—building my new life in Europe—and being where I’m formally allowed to be that is not the U.S.
Romania seems like a better bet than Ukraine. Despite what the Defense dodos in their infinite paranoia may have decided, I don’t work for the Russians. War is not exactly my cup of tea. I can’t watch gory movies or throw a punch in the neighborhood kickboxing studio. (I tried, froze up, left, and cried.) But Romania, other than being a place I have never visited and know next to nothing about, sounds lovely.
My prospective new country was one of the most infamous European bitches of the CIA’s torture and rendition program, along with Poland. And border guards in the capital of Bucharest have continued their collaboration with U.S. security forces in recent field experiments testing next-generation polygraphs as mass airport screenings. I’d like to stop those screenings from becoming widespread, because they stand to contribute to the deaths of millions of innocent people. I’d like to see high-level U.S. officials held accountable in a court of law for war crimes including torture. And I’d still like to be a ballerina-fairy-princess-bride, my amalgamation of Halloween costumes the last year my parents were married and we lived in a big, light and air-filled house on a sunny, one-acre plot full of dogwoods and bunnies.
My angel costume from this weekend is packed away neatly in the wardrobe of the master bedroom in the big, light and air-filled apartment I share with my partner. It had been over twenty years since I had dressed up for Halloween. I dress up more and pretend less now than in past lives, like when I was a postdoc at Harvard with health insurance that only worked in California and a name change certificate from the county courthouse in Virginia. My new name is right. My new country is right. My love, my career, my world makes sense here now, although I doubt I’ll ever be able to explain how I got here—involving as it did a lot of whistling in the dark. But now I’m a young painter living in a city full of young creatives, free people, real food, public transportation, gun control—the standard American expat gush.
And I just might be a Romanian hacker, too. If my dad digs up papers, if they exist, if the right nice dead people were in the right place at the right time, if it’s not one great too grand a parent to count. If I don’t have to renounce the American citizenship to get the Romanian one—because much as I’d like to be as thoroughly un-American as I feel, an Eastern European passport simply isn’t as useful as one from the West. Knowing renunciation will be required when I become German, I had gotten excited about the idea. In part because it seals my long-term sustainability here in a way. I don’t have to worry about making enough money painting and writing to renew my freelance artist visa, if I live and work here by right. But also in part because I worry I’m not even free to entertain the thought of renouncing without losing the rights and protections my citizenship is supposed to (but doesn’t) afford me.
Is it a crime, or a thoughtcrime, or a declaration of punishable disloyalty, to profess alienation from what America has become? The U.S. is about 5% of the world’s population, but uses about 25% of the world’s resources. For years, the government has been waging several undeclared wars, using flying killing robots and the strongest military in the world to target weddings, funerals, and hospitals—to get at targets including U.S. citizens who have received no due process before targeted assassination, and children.
Perhaps the most famous of those targets was Anwar al-Awlaki, an American preacher killed in 2011 by a U.S. drone strike in Yemen. Al-Awlaki preached violence against the U.S., but had not renounced his citizenship. Some speculate that renunciation requires intent. Others point out that al-Awlaki’s sixteen year old son Abdulrahman, killed in a separate drone strike, might not have been legally eligible to renounce his citizenship as a minor even if he had wanted to.
Was the kid on the kill list? If I protest that my country is no longer mine because it kills civilians without due process, spies on its citizens and the world without probable cause, tortures and kills with impunity those it deems to be threats, and has no effective judicial or legislative process for reviewing the actions of law enforcement and intelligence agents who perform these acts—is that a renunciation? Do I have to worry that, like Edward Snowden, I could wind up in an airport with no legal way out because the State Department decides to revoke my passport—just like I was required to resign from my postdoc doing police research because my then-boss said the State Department was a partner and “the organization can’t be associated with someone who appears to have been a whistleblower”? As artists, intellectuals, and other people essential to free societies have long asked: “Am I Free?”
Like the nice dead people I’m thinking about today, if consciousness endures in some way as yet unknown or unknowable to scientists, I’m free within. But just as they’re not free to cook applesauce or paint—to do living things—I’m not free to change the nature of my time. Perhaps that is the province of the dead. To live forwards and backwards without regard to the curve of history.
But for now I’m trapped here, in the second McCarthy Era. We all knew it would come. The election result will matter for a lot of people, but not for people like me. Neither electable candidate in our two-party system offers to reinstate rule of law, implementing the U.S. government that is such a good idea I carried a pocket Constitution for years. I brought it with me when I got on a plane with a backpack without telling anyone I wasn’t coming back. Now it’s signed by the likes of National Security Agency whistleblower Thomas Drake and South African apartheid resistor Tim Jenkin. If it weren’t for the signatures, I’m not sure I’d want it anymore. It’s a nice novelette, but it’s a fiction. I lost that country a long time ago.
As a wise woman recently reminded me, many extraordinary people did—some of whom still live there. It is useless to mourn this universal human perfection of what Elizabeth Bishop calls the art of losing. We go on amid the imperfection of the world and the perfection of our losses, because we find our place, as Mary Oliver says, in the family of things. Because eventually, given enough space and time, wild geese and rest, fire and friends, happiness simply becomes too hard to resist.
Next Tuesday, for the first time in my adult life, I’m not voting. I’ve already voted with my feet. I’ll be at home in Berlin, imagining what it will be like to be a Romanian hacker. I’m not a very gifted hacker; mostly my hacking has involved breaking other people’s toys using cognitive psychology party tricks. I’d rather be a German painter, but it’s a tougher gig to get. Better than an American by half—I already have better health insurance as a freelance artist here than I ever had in the States. The Europe is vast and unimaginably well-regulated—although illegal surveillance and intelligence activities corrode democracy worldwide. Perhaps such found bits of accidental civilization amid wreckage are the province of the living—that, and the finding them by stumbling into the unknown. That requires having enough hope to imagine what were previously unimaginable futures. God knows we need them; but Eastern Europeans know that God is dead.
Or, as Romanian playwright Eugène Ionesco observed: “God is dead. Marx is dead. And I don’t feel so well myself.” Nothing a little heiße Schokolade und Sauerkirschen won’t fix. I wonder what my grandparents liked to eat. On All Souls’ Day, you’re supposed to enjoy your dead relatives’ favorite dishes and think of them. But I don’t know how my granddad took his coffee. What kind of jam he liked, on what kind of toast. How he spoke to his wife, gestured while he spoke, moved in the kitchen, in the world. How he loved. His own papers didn’t say. And the FBI claimed, when I asked, that—had his files existed (as they generally did on Abraham Lincoln Brigade vets)—they would have just been destroyed.
The Stasi files in the former East Germany have been preserved for future generations. People here often remember from experience what it was like to live in a surveillance society. How the spiral of silence worked not just politically to silence minority opinions—as recent research found true also for simply knowing one is under mass surveillance in the U.S. today. But how that spiral of silence also worked within families. When surveillance stifles political expression, it also stifles personal expression. When oppression poisons trust in communities, it also poisons trust in families. There is no line. The political is personal. Surveillance is a psychological attack on freedom of all kinds.
The fabric of society is at stake, now as ever, in whether or not we can talk to each other, empathize, make mistakes, ask questions, listen—and carry on. Germany may have a stronger resistance culture because of its history and laws, but the U.S. too has a long history of resistance to tyranny including laws that promise due process, freedom of expression and association, and other basic rights. If only its citizens were allowed to choose a government that might implement those laws.
Oils on 80 x 100 cm stretched canvas.
“Surveillance Sonnet #73”
Light comes in many colors: ROYGBIV, above, below, between.
Cables bring light across borders, so we’re closer than we’ve ever been.
Optical fiber cables carry light with digital information.
That info contains the phone, Net, and TV of a nation.
That time of history thou mayst indeed behold
In which kings and soldiers take back their hold
On riches such as bouncing light
Carrying the world’s internal might.
In the USA NSA’s XKEYSCORE and PRISM,
And other countries’ security services too—
They break the telecoms light up with a prism
To spy on me and you.
Sometimes they bend the wire instead.
Light escapes either way. Due process is dead.
Oils on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas.
The last song in my planned set of 12 new Berlin-era songs: music, lyrics. When I moved here in November to focus on my art in what seemed to be the best European city for a young artist today—cheap(ish) food and housing, lots of other artists and intellectuals, everything you could possibly want going on most nights of the week, above all the feeling of freedom (and the safety to act on it)—I found I couldn’t sing my old songs. So I figured I would write new ones, and that would solve the problem. Most of my favorite albums have about 12 songs, so I settled on that number. I’ve written more, but these are the ones I could see learning to performance level and playing in the park.
But what I have now is not really 12 songs. It’s more like 12 draft vocal tracks of the sketches of a dozen new songs. In theory now I can listen to the 12 while I paint, sing to the drafts to learn them better without thinking too much, and play around with accompaniment on my Midi keyboard until it sounds right. In practice now probably I will just go “Oh, right—I’m not a musician! Haha! Other people are really good at this, have trained for 20+ years by the time they’re my age, and I just sort-of sing quietly to myself sometimes when I’m sure no one can hear!”
And refocus yet again on painting beautiful new art to sell, because my art is worth something.
Oils on 60 x 80 cm stretched canvas.
Commissioned by the Honorable Jakob Maria Mierscheid, MdB (SPD). Painted from a photograph I took at dawn, after biking around the ghost town of sleeping summer Berlin in the early morning light.
Parliament houses the only Parliamentary inquiry globally to date investigating American mass surveillance and targeted surveillance of political leaders like German Chancellor Angela Merkel. U.S. Director of National Intelligence James Clapper called the inquiry “more dangerous than the Snowden revelations,” illustrating the danger the American deep state perceives itself to be in when democratic partners insist on rule of law.
The medium fits the message here in that sense. There’s license with the photorealistic aspect, just as there’s interpretation in law. But it’s moored in the proportions of reality. Just like rule of law. (Right, guys? RIIIIGHT?????)
Wet oils on the fifth layer or so on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas. Thinking of a long-promised land in California I’ll never see. Illustrates…
This is the 11th happy (ish) song I’ve written since deciding all my old songs were too sad to sing, and I’d have to write all-new material to even figure out if I can sing in front of myself—much less anybody else. And it still manages to have this sad back-story, or series of sad back-story meanings when I think about it.
In any event, at #12 I can stop and reevaluate whether I want to use these vocal sketches to learn the lyrics and melody, compose and learn proper accompaniment, and revisit public performance as a thing I do as an artist… Because I fantasize about it, but maybe it is just a fantasy because I’m a quiet poet–painter more than a stand-up in spite of my experiments. And because everyone knows an album has at least 12 songs you can sing with happy families in the park on Sunday. Otherwise you need to learn Beatles covers for wedding gigs, and then you might as well get a job in advertising, and we know where that ends.
As those of you who get my newsletter know, my new web store is open! Eventually it will be the landing page of this lovely new website you’re reading my blog on right now. It will also accept credit cards, tailor shipping costs (currently included), and include an option to commission work. And I’m on my way to making the income I’ll need to renew my artist visa, to keep living here in Berlin!
Please take a look and let me know what you think if you have time. Thanks for supporting my art.
It seems I have been taking a summer vacation. Weird.
Still, new paintings of larger and different sorts are in the works as I synthesize good feedback I got from smart people, rest my sore hand, and find new inspiration. For example, I’m working on a larger painting of the German Parliament building (or Reichstag)—from a photo I took very early one morning when the northern European summer light was incredibly beautiful and the streets perfectly empty. Like the rest of the world, I also can’t stop looking at this.
Life drawing happens in my living room now, of course. But I can’t take photos of that, to work from more slowly… So lately I’ve also been painting on some small, fast works that also don’t feel done.
Similarly, a few new vocal track song drafts from vacation are online (here and here). Someday I will figure out how to write proper accompaniment for, practice to performance level, and perform my new Berlin music oeuvre. For now I’m just trying to get together a dozen new songs I actually want to sing. I’m up to 10—15+ if you count everything I’ve written lately, which I don’t. I found when I moved here in November that I simply couldn’t sing my old stuff anymore. I didn’t want to memorize any of my published poetry. I want to keep working on performing as an artist, but don’t know how exactly. I’m still not sure there’s a voice of mine to be found in this vein. From how people respond there’s more clearly a “there there” in my painting…
Thanks again to everyone who made my first Berlin gallery show last month at ReTramp a success. Now the beginnings of my new Berlin painting oeuvre are back home. It feels so good to have them also rephotographed with proper tripod and camera. For the first time, you can now see the colors and textures in my paintings—in their photographic form. That first improved curation step done, I’m setting up a new and improved online store… With a little help from my friends (read: a lot of help from Mr. Wolf). I hope it will be online later this month, but we’ll see. (I need yet another German number for tax things, and such.)
I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t writing. But I do so need to launch this European art career. So I’m also working on a book proposal reinventing the research memoir I tried writing last fall, thinking of Françoise Gilot—the painter and memoirist who fled into art from law studies under Nazi pressure, and then left France and Picasso for a new life in America. Still I’m not sure I should return to the work that led me to leave academia and the States. I’m so glad to be here now.
In the meantime I’m still learning German through cooking and love, and will continue this summer vacation thing with light posting, longer work sessions on fewer paintings, and more inspiration-seeking than thing-making for a while… Much as I need to write and make and do every day. It has been time for a rest.
Oils on 80 x 100 cm stretched canvas.
Illustrates how security agencies like the U.S.A.’s N.S.A. break into fiber-optic cables carrying entire countries’ phone, Internet, and TV communications using a prism or bending the cable to leak and intercept the light in illegal global mass surveillance programs like PRISM.
Last night I rehung my first Berlin gallery show in the front room of ReTramp Gallery, with more works. Cartwheeling occurred.
Since moving into my new home studio in late March, I’ve managed to create enough finished work for a solo gallery show in Berlin (my first). I approve.
The work showcases a range of styles and subject matter, although it’s also all in my voice. (Or vision, as the case may be.)
The opening on Monday night was a great success. Friends and family came to gawk and talk.
Thanks to everyone who helped make my first Berlin gallery show a success, especially my partner Mr. Wolf and ReTramp gallerist Verity Oberg.
Work hangs through this Sunday, July 18. Until then the gallery is open Wed., Fri., and Sun. 17:00-20:00 and by appointment. After that you just have to come over for coffee to see my art—until I get another show.
(Who says painting isn’t a performance art?)
Oils on 40 x 50 cm stretched canvas. After Archipenko’s Box.
This is one of the first finished works from my new Berlin oeuvre. I made it on Day 5 of work in my new home studio after not having a dedicated studio space for about a year. It’s hanging now at ReTramp gallery in Berlin, where I have a joint opening tonight… And a solo show (my first here) the rest of the week!
Yay! I have a gallery show! In Berlin!
If you read this, and you’re in Berlin, please feel invited to the opening of my first showing of the new Berlin oeuvre on Monday the 11th of July, 2016, at 19:00. It’s at ReTramp gallery, Reuterstraße 62, 12047 Berlin.
The work will be there at least through Friday the 15th of July, maybe longer. The show begins as a group show with cutting-edge hyperimpressionist Italian artists, and continues as a solo show of my latest work.