Painting > New Work

A melted popsicle on a sidewalk
oil on canvas
22 x 18 inches
2024
A melted spiderman popsicle on a sidewalk
oil on canvas
24 x 20 inches
2024
A melted popsicle on a sidewalk
oil on canvas
15 x 19 inches
2024
a halo around a street lamp
oil on canvas
30 x 24 inches
2024
A foot sticking out of a hammock in the woods
oil on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2024
Three people standing near a grill at dusk near the lake
oil on canvas
22 x 15 inches
2024
Three women sitting near the lake with a small camp fire and artifical phone light
oil on canvas
16 x 23 inches
2024
A man standing in the darkness using a phone light to try to choose ice cream from a paleta cart
oil on canvas
18 x 24 inches
2024
The Swimmer
oil on canvas
2024
a woman swimming in a pool
oil on canvas
19 x 29 inches
2024
A man pulling off a blue sweater
oil on canvas
22 x 15 inches
2024
hot charcoal briquettes
oil on canvas
14 x 18 inches
2024
Construction Site
oil on canvas
15 x 19 inches
2024
a man and a child in a bathroom
oil on canvas
22 x 18 inches
2024
A circle of boys smoking a joint in the woods
oil on canvas
28 x 16 inches
2024
a wrapped present
oil on canvas
18 x 22 inches
2024
Birthday Cake
oil on canvas
23 x 15 inches
November 2023
Melted ice cream cake, Gwendolyn Zabicki, painting
oil on canvas
24 x 32 inches
2023
Four chocolate frosted donuts in a grease stained box
oil on canvas
15 x 19 inches
2023
a stick of butter with a knife
oil on canvas
15 x 21 inches
2022
a man snow blowing the sidewalk
oil on canvas
24 x 30 inches
2024
a couch covered in a blanket of snow
oil on canvas
25 x 32 inches
2023

I think it was 2008 or 2009 that I noticed that everything at the grocery store was "enrobed" in chocolate. Not "dipped" or "dunked" or simply "covered" anymore, now everything had this great, fanciful word attached to it. Enrobed. The word just stuck around in my mind for a while. What else was enrobed and why?

The first painting in the series came from an old upholstered couch that someone had put in their backyard and used all summer long. Fall, then winter came and one day it snowed and a perfect, unmarred blanket of snow fell on that couch. It looked like you could lift it up and sleep under it. It was enrobed. It was beautiful. When people ask me what my show is about, I say, "it's things covered by things." Things can be covered by accident (like the sidewalk in Tears of a Spiderman), but sometimes it's to protect (Birthday Cake), to keep warm (the snuggly baby in Pushing a Stroller in the Street). Sometimes it's to repair, or maintain (Roofers). Sometimes it's for comfort, for pleasure (Too Hot, The Swimmer) or for privacy (the little pink robe in Waiting) or surprise (Present) or for vanity (Dye Job). Sometimes it's to hide something a little bit naughty (Boys Smoking a Joint). Sometimes whole places and people can be enrobed in darkness (Paletas, Drunk Bike Ride), or like in the hammock painting, blissfully enrobed in nature.

When I made the Boys Smoking a Joint painting I saw them huddled in a circle and knew immediately what they were doing though I never did see the joint. I asked them if I could make a painting of them and they very graciously recreated the pose for me. I told them about my show coming up and said that usually when you have an idea, the first couple versions of it aren't that good, but the longer you stick with it, the stranger and more interesting versions of it start to come forward. What happens when you take an absurd idea and just keep going with it? Take it as far as you can?

One of my favorite books is Baron In The Trees. It's about a boy who climbs a tree to evade punishment from his parents and never comes down. That's the whole book. He lives his whole life up there. It's wonderful. I won't spoil the ending for you if you haven't read it, but it's a perfect ending. The last painting in the series is a grave. As of this writing, I haven't finished it yet. But it seemed like a fitting end. It's a thing covered by a thing and a grave seems like it does the same thing as a painting. It's a rectangle that says I once existed and if you happened to have known me you'll know that there is more to it than that.