This is where I'm coming from, artistically speaking. I dig on the American Regionalism of Winslow Homer, John Steuart Curry, Maynard Dixon, John Rogers Cox, Andrew Wyeth, and Thomas Hart Benton, but the realism is more muted, the magic cranked all the way up. A little tight and heavy on perspective. Not the magic you'd see on a glitzy Las Vegas residency, the kind you see at a carnival when you're not tall enough for the good rides. My hand is steady enough for a paintbrush, but not deft enough for sleight of hand. Card tricks are out, I still can't shuffle a deck. I love the thick, messy lines and accidental colors and delicious textures of Post-Impressionism, but I also like what I see on the flyers of bands I haven’t seen in a long time, flapping on the wind outside the bar during soundcheck on a Sunday matinee. I like the paintings on the covers of old magazines. I like to see what happens if I do this instead of that. I grapple with the notion that it's all been done before, then I put that shit to bed and start painting something I want to see.

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Tiemeyer.