Original Charcoal and Pastel
16x20  Bristol Vellum Paper
 
The painter never drank before he started working with blood. he never considered it, not seriously. It was ones breath when he whispered things he didn't mean. It was something that happened to people who lost themselves. But the canvas demanded it.
At first, it was just whiskey, a neat pour beside the easel, the amber liquid catching the studio's dim light. he convinced himself it was for the process, for the ritual, the way old alchemists used mercury to transmute lead into gold. Except his gold wasn't gold at all. It was crimson, thick and wet, stolen from his own veins. when the bottles emptied the brush begged for something more. he found that alcohol softened the lines, blurred the edges of things that should have remained sharp. The more he drank, the more the canvas bled, the figures shifting and writhing under the brush as if they were alive, suffering, asking for something he couldn't name. The whiskey burned like an incantation, an ancient alchemical trick whispered between the teeth of the damned. And then one night, the painting spoke.
 
Go behind the drawings, the process behind my work with every piece.