Curated Artist Registry

The White Columns Curated Artist Registry is an online catalog of digital images documenting the work of artists who are not affiliated with a commercial gallery in New York City. Each submission is reviewed by our curatorial staff; in order to be considered for the registry, one must submit work digitally via this website.

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Updated: 2017-11-21 13:12:33


Because I was raised in a very rural area without a TV, most of my visual references are tied to landscape and my environment. My parents told detailed me stories about their lives and I could visualize them with perfect clarity.  Memories of intense situations are always visual and tied to locations, times of day, textures, and touch.  The content is emotional and narrative, but the paintings often depict landscape.

I am not interested in realism. I have always been fascinated with photographic outcomes that failed at realism.  The lens flare is one of my favorites. It draws attention to the apparatus and creates something fantastical at the same time; something that the eye doesn’t see in the same way. In effect, it is painterly. In my paintings, I bring attention to the medium, the tactility of it, the malleability, the color, the transparency, and create my own kind of lens flares. I like to bring out one color that dominates over all others. Like a memory where there is the one unidentifiable thing that keeps it circling in the mind, the specificity and indiscernible nature of a color permeates all parts of the image, holding it in place.

I write in tandem with making a painting. Writing helps me be exact within the emotional space of a memory. Below are three poems that were written while making “night”, “heat”, and “canyon”



My father told me,

Vietnam at night-

The darkness is so deep

You can hold

Your hand inches

From your face and

Still see nothing.

He said it was

Wet and smelled of leaves

And you could hear

Noises so far above you.

He told me this when I was twelve.

I am thirty-five now

And thinking of him-

Twenty-one years old

From West Palm Beach

With his hand in front of his face

In the jungle

In the night



My mother

Has always looked for the divine

But not in churches.

She does not smoke or drink or

Have any harmful habits

that I know of besides


which is to say

everyone must suffer.

She hallucinated once and

Told me of universes

Spinning inside a single flower.

She had left the others and walked

Somewhere, I don’t know.

She looked into this flower,

Each time I imagine it differently,

And infinity opened up before her.



This is something that formed me.

Florida to California in Amtrak.

My father was too broke to

Buy a sleeping cabin so,

We lived in our seats

And, looking out the window

Watched the land pass by

For three days and nights.

We made friends with the

Woman who worked

In the dining car and she

Let us sit between cars

In the open air.

Texas is what I remember most.

Endless and more endless.

Then there was a crevice in the earth.

It came up suddenly

And we were above a great abyss.

Maybe there was a river below,

I have no idea.

Days of flat lands and then this.

It sent me straight out of my body and

I never forgot.


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