Painting the World in Polygons

Instead, I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and thought, Oh. So this is it. I’ve arrived.

So this fall of 2025, I picked up a brush.

Not because I felt particularly inspired, but because I’d clearly reached the age I once assigned to mythical future-me. These paintings are whatever became of that promise I made to a younger man who assumed time would be polite enough to wait.

These acrylics are what happens when I try to make sense of the everyday—wine and Crocs at the counter, Zoey at the cupboard, grandkids hauling Pop-Pop to the candy store, babies suspended in that impossible second before gravity remembers its job.

Nothing here is staged or perfected. It’s simply the world as it looked when it held still long enough to land on canvas.

All of it happened.

Well, most of it.

The Geometry of Memory

From what I can tell, I appear to be in my geometric phase of work. I paint in fragments—shapes, angles, and colors—because memory doesn’t arrive whole. It comes back in pieces, its shape and meaning altered by time and reinterpretation.

Some sharp.
Some softened.
All held together by whatever emotion was present when it was formed.

If any of these scenes feel familiar, that’s the point. Most of us don’t recognize that the ordinary we live in is extraordinary until it’s gone.