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small oil paintings on reclaimed wood

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Aiming to be beautiful, tragic, dramatic, even romantic - but something about them (an innate sense of humor?) questions the sincerity. This line between sincerity and the absurd is what I find always creeps into my work. 

Are they more poetic when viewed as sincere attempts at beauty or more poetic viewed as tragically mocking that same sincerity? 

When I work I truly do work in waves of sincerity then it becomes absurd to me. 

When I see the absurdity of it all is when I feel it becomes most beautiful and poetic.


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