VOLUME 2
Issue 23
May 21, 2026

ANTWAN HORFEE—3 QUESTIONS

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Antwan Horfee: I have to say I never thought I would do this as a craft in a work, and it came pretty late in my life.

What I “like” about it is pretty light as you could say I live it, and if my hands are not, my head is on it.

Painting has always been related to the context that my closest people, community of enthusiasts, etc., were living in.

Through my life, I found systems to live in between the lines that were definite for my social class. Matter of fact, there is no social elevator no more, stay where you were born and zip it.

It took me time, but I decided to be very active and fulfill my days with no remorse, no frustrations, and get the most experiences out of it. Extreme ones, that deeply affect what you thought was your core, are my favorites. Rave 90’s kids would tell you that the sauce was intense! Well, so I don’t have to mention it then lol. I was so obsessed with a few images that could reach my eyes back in the no Internet days, they had a value of dreams.

Stickers, flyers, wall inscriptions, anything that wasn’t corporate adverts.

Slowly got my sweet 16 ready to explore and paint my city and truly had a sense of living life. Layers of mazes imbricated with no reason to stop getting lost. Years passed by.

Well, once again, I was hit by life and the atmosphere changed around me. I wanted to stop having a regular job , day by day money-making.

Since my mom was working in the public hospital, I think the only values I had about living with others were the supportive one. Be humanistic. I definitely struggled to keep this sensation alive. Started to paint in a studio I paid, I chose, I knew why I was spending time there. Canvases, papers, books, and other graphical adventures are a vector of invitation and transmission. I observed my context, I put it down, elevated the number of variations in a list of desires, I learned and trained myself to do better ones every day. With many friends, artists or not obviously, we chat, we question.

Many artists in the world we know did so much to learn from. I want to add my share, maybe.

Looking for inner beauty and existential reasons! Guilty pleasures!

Then display it through a personal Cluedo for others, creating a strange spectacle.

That is something!

Crossovers after crossovers, it shapes into singular shapes, and one day an indistinct mass of people might follow a silhouette or a living emotion rhythm. I live for this show; it’s a community role and responsibility to explore if you can and bring your treasures to the surface. The world we live in, sacrificed in the name of profits for some, still has hearts to be reached. It may sound like utopia, but the creative matter seems to disappear sometimes, and I love watching the youth sculpting it, feeling concerned.

I wish to enlarge the scale of discussion and not only practice in my private corner for some elected names in a gallery roster. I want to dream and hear the ideas of the fresh brains that are around; I want to feel like in a train of many cars collapsing ! I want to see creative chaos that leads to questions and problematics. I want to see the last breath in a picture but also extreme complex constructions rising up.

This dream machine analysis is exquisite; stop a visual scenario in a mental space, then make it accessible

to show it to people and wait for their opinion, rejection, emotions, whatever it is, BUT feel transformed.

That is a bit why I choose painting.

To act somewhere in the vastitude, to feel something connecting me to the weird rest,

to the obscure other solid skull-heads.

This is my curiosity thirst!

These works I do are also willing to push other ones to try to express themselves if I can, if they can—as well as I felt better doing them, they might too. The therapeutic theory is real.

Marginalized doesn’t mean ending up alone with some raging sensations, no, not only.

To me, I discovered I was a capable piece of machinery that needed a use and a function.

I am desperate but full of hope that this sense of living life could reach others, and more artists on the planet displaying their visions and essays might make an entertaining environment, where it is right now clogged.

We want more of this, and less

of rotten opportunistic vampire minds.

This whole question thing is too rare, and thank you for simply exposing it.

It might feel strongly affected , but what can I say? A very diseased society is a bath for interesting creative minds to my opinion.

GB: When a painting really works for you, what has happened to the viewer? Are they destabilized, energized, united, confused, healed?

AH: Well, so I deeply think whatever you feel is great, my engagement here is trying to make an adventure for myself when I do it , and then trying to transmit the adventure that is here to live for you. This is what I consider authenticity. Th This is what I consider extremely important.

I always try to develop a science of composition, trying to make it as much as I can as a source of entertainment, for people that are watching I want their eyes to circulate in an image with a feeling of narrative.

As much as I can’t, I want people to feel like in a movie, things are talking to each other, color masses are corresponding and maybe felt like part of the same dream, and shadows or contrast are developing what is important to watch or what is in movement.

As well action can be in the dark, surprises can be enlightened, the wall thing has to display a playful ground for the eyes and for me if I feel something when I do it, I really want you to feel something when you watch it.

That is a real source of contentment.

If you have a reaction or you have a memory of it, etc. You hate it you like it whatever as long as you lived something.

I’m trying to make paintings or drawings actually where objects and movements are not things you can recognize but only the things you can imagine on your own. I don’t want things to be trapped in their meaning.

Figurative object to be interpreted ,yes, but not to be seen on site !

GB: How do you balance control and freedom in your paintings? At what moment do you allow the image to escape you?

AH: Oh well, freedom is a sense of living life, you try to access it. I think no artist is really free. There are 1000 ways to see it.

-AND -(adding complexity to the soup ) Control can also be a sense of freedom somehow. So by freedom I would say driving temporarily is the abandonment of control. Through one painting. Every time, yes.

One frame always has a structure that I want to dress.

I put some kind of armor of freedom touches on a solid skeleton.

But obviously, sometimes it’s the opposite!

Freedom sensations geared with solid structure , like speed limitations on the freeway.

The research of balance that pleases the eye is also in my book. Of course, I challenge it.

Boredom fighter ! And surprise myself again. Can be called a sabotage virus !

That is an inner adventure to define when you take some risks with paint you add on the picture to find a solution. “Will this be still understandable, recognizable as something I did?” big simple-minded voice in my head.

But isn’t it when it’s starting to be interesting?

Canceling automatisation and formula.

Let’s realize you are many artists at the same time, you don’t really have a signature, you only practice one way that you particularly chose, you apply paint with some kind of personal schooling. But is this creative freedom ? Are we not all blocked in the equation of singularity ? Maybe losing control is suddenly doing something that is not routine. Accepting the new to enlarge skills, to play with the digestion of your art history dictionary.

What would other painters do?

How would an observer help the halfway-finished painting?

Emergency creates a sudden paradox that allows space. A few would go strictly to comfort zone , a few would add to the painting, a tone that is outcast from the vocabulary.

The « Just try » activity

The control is also a life notion, so through a painting it’s very visible if you play with it.

When you paint you are supposedly a painter. (always as a maybe) but from time to time I like to paint a theatrical intervention, and show I’m not domesticated by what a professional artist in 2026 should do. A very logical emancipation “think out of the box” type of act.

I love it, and I am not tired of it.

Also the image as you say, is always escaping me. I never really plan. I never really succeed. I always end up with one way that could have been 20 different ways.

One image is a frozen frame in time, and it tries to explain “oh it could be this” when your head says and thinks that the variation that it could’ve been is way more interesting.

Process they say.

If only you could see all of them it would be a better movie, but here is a frame check!

b. 1983, Paris, FR
Lives and works in Paris, FR

Antwan Horfee paints in a mode that melds figuration with abstraction with a particular interest in sci-fi and fantasy aesthetics. Traversing between hazy color fields and airbrushed figuration, Horfee’s painterly gestures create narrative guides that bridge visual planes of varying depths and usher spectators into invented alternate realities. The works endeavor to push amateurism and fuel creative curiosity. Manifested from emotion, the collage-like forms generated through Horfee’s action painting reflect layers of aesthetic references including Japanese ukiyo-e, graffiti, comics, and painters spanning art history such as Peter Paul Rubens and Charline von Heyl. Horfee’s vivid strokes and graphic undulating forms, palpable reminders of each work’s material flatness, function as fabricated chimeras pulled from science-fiction and fantasy that serve as reminders of the power and joy of creation.

(bio via Nino Mier Gallery)

“Three Questions”

Rachel Collier

April 10, 2026

Volume 2
Issue 22

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Rachel Collier: What attracts me to painting is how deeply you can dive into it. It’s a feeling like romantic love, like being in the ocean of love with painting. I think because it feels emotional to me, I use it as a place to organize whatever urgencies and impulses I am dealing with. Lately, in the real world, we are collectively processing an overwhelming amount of both abundance and scarcity and it is creating a lot of confusion. If I were to relate this to painting, which is what I often do, it reminds me that painting is a place where conflicting ideas and multiple realities exist naturally. A painting can be an object that represents something and it can also be the actual something. It has the function of both the architectural model and the finished building. This concept has power in its potential for immeasurable growth. If you deconstruct the abstract idea of immeasurable growth you find many qualities that can be easily manipulated; it is unverifiable, irrefutable, non-objective, etc. I’m interested in recognizing the ways that people with power manipulate these systems against us and I’m looking for ways to create work in resistance to their false narratives. Abstract painting feels like a place to build resilience by asserting physical forms as adaptable, unrestricted and beautiful. I’m invested in self-generated painting as a place to visually configure our overwhelm into a new kind of abundance.

GB: When you say painting can reconfigure overwhelm into a new kind of abundance, what does that abundance look like materially in the studio? Is it excess, restraint, repetition, scale? Have you read "All Things Are Too Small: Essays in Praise of Excess” by Becca Rothfeld?

RC: I like the idea that some of my fiber work could be evidence that painting has an abundance of qualities that are translatable to materials other than paint. Anything that can be described ‘painterly’ without being made with paint exposes the invisible side of painting. Invisibility lives in darkness which is widely considered a feminine and witchy place to gather wisdom and that feels like the place to be right now. I have not read the Rothfield essays but I’m seeing that one of her themes is that ‘art is the ultimate object of appetite because it cannot be fully consumed or diminished.’ Sounds like she could agree that painting is both the appetite and the food? The appetite is the invisible quality that exists even without the food, the painterly quality.
To further answer your question about materials and studio, I feel like I get a lot of abundance out of ‘scalability.’ Structurally speaking, I love to make the biggest paintings possible for the space they will be shown, I’m working on scaling down which is a challenge. As far as content goes, I focus on forms that feel like they could exist in the micro and the macro or across multiple terrains; ocean, outer space, underground, at the cellular level, etc. If things get ‘landscapey’ which they often do, I try to make that place feel familiar in a psychic way, like it’s a place you could imagine going and here you are.

GB: You describe the invisible side of painting as a dark, feminine place of gathering wisdom. How do you make that invisibility active rather than hidden in the work?

RC: I like this question and I think about it a lot. It sounds like what you are asking is to explain how I bypass the barriers that guard the invisible magical realm. The answer is highly subjective so it’s maybe best explained by talking through process. When I’m painting I try to watch myself like how a person watches a movie in a dark theater, both open to being entertained but also watching critically, looking for interruptions to the ‘suspension of disbelief.’ There is a way something can be too visually familiar or the craftsmanship can fail or the edges around shapes can be too inconsistent or a thousand other things that are disruptive to an immersive experience. Being sensitive to these failures is a way to build trust with myself to better understand when something is coming from the hidden place. I try to focus not on how to render the invisible but on how to create an environment that is sensitive to what has to be erased.

Rachel Collier (b. 1981) is an artist born and based in Minneapolis. Collier’s work is rendered in expansive color, transcribing ecstatic realms that populate our shared consciousness. Repeated abstract forms anchor familiar psychic landscapes to our physical world, stirring the spirit in preparation for advancement or departure. While referencing the languages of maps and topography, her compositions deconstruct from the grid to imagine transcendent space. Collier has her BFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and recent exhibitions and publications include HAIR+NAILS Gallery (Minneapolis, MN), Felix Fair (LA, CA), NADA Miami (Miami, FL), Intersect Fair (Aspen, CO), the Nemeth Art Center (Park Rapids, MN), I Love You Too (Portland, OR), TOA Presents (Cody, Wyoming), Carolyn Glasoe Bailey Foundation (Ojai, CA), Rochester Art Center (Rochester, MN), Saint Kate’s Arts Hotel (Milwaukee, WI), New American Paintings, MN Artists. Residencies: The Wassaic Project, Wassaic, NY (2021, 2022); Anderson Center Jerome Emerging Artist Residency and Fellowship, Red Wing, MN (2022); Nido invitational residency and exhibition, Monte Castello di Vibio, Umbria, Italy (2022); Anderson Ranch Arts Center, Snowmass Village, CO (2022); Roswell Artist-in-Residence (alternate), Roswell, NM (2024-2025.)

The Artist in her studio.

Fewer by Growing (2026), acrylic and wool on canvas, 38”x54”

Waves on Waves (2026) acrylic, oil, and wool on canvas. 44”x 22”

“Three Questions”

Jennifer Coates

March 12, 2026

Volume 2
Issue 21
Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?  

Jennifer Coates: I like that painting is alchemical - that emotion and psychological charge are generated from piles of inert goo. Squishy drippy substances can be organized into pictures.
The flat bound surface of the canvas can contain space, depth, atmosphere. The physicality of paint can augment or undermine ephemerality - encrusted lumps can also be vapors.
I love to corral marks, gestures, spills; pay close attention to the edges of forms; establish an internal hierarchy, a structure that guides the eye around a place that never existed before. I love to play with positive and negative space, to flip them optically, to confuse pictorial space. I love the struggle that comes along with finding a painting. I have to keep looking, erasing, editing, obsessing until I find it. The dopamine hit of finding a painting is so delayed but always so worth it!

GB: You describe the dopamine hit of finding a painting as delayed but deeply satisfying. In a culture engineered for constant stimulation, does painting feel like resistance training for attention? What kind of patience or appetite does that delay build in you?

C: We live in an ADHD world and my brain is just as distorted as all of us by the constant stimulation. But yes, I do believe that constant quiet effort that builds hour by hour and day by day is a resistance against a technological regime that addicts our brains to gadgets, social media, the news cycle and shortens our attention spans.
I grew up playing classical violin and learned how to give myself over to practicing and slowly building skills—the payoff was my ability to play something beautiful. I’m grateful for that.
I also play tennis which is a similar slow accumulation of skills after many hundreds of hours of frustration. The flow state we can achieve after that kind of discipline, re focusing over and over and being persistent is miraculous to me. There are days that my whole body repels the idea of painting and even being in the studio but I go and push through anyway because you never know when something will click.
Especially with capitalist driven AI efficiency taking over, the inefficient work of the body, the mind in tenuous connection with the hand, seems more important than ever.

GB: On the days your whole body resists painting, how do you tell the difference between a necessary warning and ordinary friction? When do you listen, and when do you override yourself?

JC: I think I have to discern between psychic agitation and physical exhaustion. If it’s exhaustion, then take a break, it’s ok. It isn’t always easy to give myself permission to rest but I’m getting better at it.
If existential doubt, anxiety, indecision are the cause of my resistance to painting, then I try to push through. Maybe I’ll clean up the studio or organize some colored pencils just to start the process. Or put paint on the palette—saying to myself let’s just see what happens. Or lately I’ve been cutting things, making collages, reassembling pieces of old drawings, pages of old books, art postcards. Something about cutting, the directness of it, is a good antidote for my psychic agitation these days. If picking up a brush and trying to find the picture—trying to make a world—feels too hard, I like to make sure there are other studio behaviors available at any given moment.

Jennifer Coates is an artist working in Brooklyn, NY and Lakewood, PA. She is the 2021 recipient of the John Koch Art Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, a 2021 NYFA Award in painting, a 2019 Fellowship at the Civitella Ranieri Foundation, and a Sharpe Walentas Studio residency (2018-2019). Recent solo shows include Untitled Art Miami 2022 with High Noon, Miami, FL; Para Pastoral at Pamela Salisbury Gallery, Hudson, NY; Lesser Gods of Lakewood, PA at High Noon, NYC; and Pagan Forest, West Chester University. Recent group shows include Wonderland, curated by Elizabeth Denny and Katie Alice Fitz, Aicon Gallery, New York, NY; And So Did Pleasure Take the Hand of Sorrow and They Wandered Through the Land of Joy, Bates College Museum of Art, Lewiston, ME; Psychedelic Landscape at Eric Firestone Gallery, NYC, and Post Pop Landscapes at Acquavella Galleries in NYC and Palm Beach, FL, curated by Todd Bradway. Her work has been written about in Hyperallergic, BOMB Magazine, the Brooklyn Rail, Art Critical, the Huffington Post, Smithsonian Journeys, and Art News, among other publications.

Ossuary with Ivy and Starling, acrylic and spray paint on canvas, 60x72 inches, 2025

Cabinet of Curiosities 1, collage and mixed media on paper, 22x30 inches, 2026

Mourning Figure with Wildflowers, acrylic and spray paint on canvas, 16x20 inches, 2026

“Three Questions”
 
Sam Windett

March 10, 2026

Volume 2
Issue 20

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Sam Windett: I tend to think more often about the things I don't like. I can find painting very frustrating because a lot of the time it doesn’t really do the things you want it to do. I’m always looking for ways to trick a painting into existence, letting the universe have a go. I like looking at other people’s paintings a lot though.
However, when it's going well I love it. I enjoy bringing something into existence out of nothing, something mysterious that I have probably wanted to be in the world for a long time. It's very rewarding to make an object that accrues a kind of power and significance simply through the combination of a set of different materials. It's like a puzzle. a painting can be put together in a way that either has integrity and magic or in a way that just feels phony or like a dud. We all have the same pieces of the puzzle and it just depends on how you put them together.

GB: What tells you that a painting has crossed from effort and frustration into integrity and magic—and does that recognition come suddenly or accumulate over time?

SW: I’m not sure they follow any rules really. But on the whole, the recognition of something special or at least interesting forms over time. I suppose that painting is an emergent technology, with all the little component parts only gaining significance when they interact as a whole. It always amazes me how so often the emergent properties don't actually ever emerge! The bits don't fit together in any meaningful way.
Often, the thing that tells me that the work has crossed that line into an object that is greater than the sum of its parts, is something physical. Something that affects the nervous system. Something that is not intellectual.

GB: When a painting crosses that threshold, is your job to preserve that state, or to push it further and risk collapse? What tells you it’s finished?

SW: I am sure that lots of painters feel this, but I am always tempted to push things further into that state of near (or total) collapse. It's a desire that needles away at you and doesn't stop until you have resolved or destroyed the work. I always trust that internal voice that pushes and pushes because it just disappears when things fall into place. I always think about the Martingale betting system that people apply to roulette or chance games. You basically double your stakes on every turn and keep playing until you win, and I think in a way the same can apply to painting. You can keep adding material or making decisions about a work until it eventually makes sense and it will gain a certain significance through the belief in that system. And in a funny way, each work has a separate and unique internal logic and they are born from allowing that logic to evolve in a very chaotic and unpredictable manner. The rules that apply to one painting are completely different to the next and so on.
I'm not sure who said this, but I was reading an interview with a famous painter and they said that they recognise the moment that a painting is finished as when they no longer want to get up and touch it or be near it. I think it's a pretty good way to tell and again, it's a physical reaction to the way an object interacts with the world. It's like a bodily intuition.

Sam Windett (b. 1977, Kent, UK) lives and works in Kent. Recent solo exhibitions Include; 2024 HORSES, The Approach, London, UK; MMXX, The Approach, London, UK (Online) (2020); REMODEL, The Approach, London, UK (2019); Condo NYC, Marinaro, New York, USA (2018); Motorway IV, The Approach, London, UK (2017); Sam Windett, Marc Foxx, Los Angeles, USA (2015); THIS PANEL IS THAT PAINTING, The Approach, London, UK (2014); Billion Watt Bulb, Marc Foxx, Los Angeles, USA (2010); Zephyr, Sies + Höke Galerie, Düsseldorf, Germany (2010). Group exhibitions include; The Reason for Painting, Mead Gallery, Warwick Arts Centre, Coventry, UK (2023), Rose des Vents, Park, Tilburg, Netherlands, Aftermath, Setareh Gallery, Düsseldorf, Germany (2019); Several Options, Horse and Pony, Berlin, Germany; 20 Years, The Approach, London, UK (2017); Imagine, Brand New Gallery, Milan, Italy (2016); Background/ Foreground, Galerie Nordenhake, Stockholm, Sweden (2016); Modest Villa Immense Versailles, Kinman, London, UK (2016); The Grantchester Pottery paints the stage, Jerwood Space, London, UK (2015); Inside Arrangement, Mary Mary, Glasgow, UK (2014); Intersection- Contemporary Abstraction And Figuration, The Torrance Art Museum, Torrance, CA, USA (2013).

Glider, 2024
Oil and acrylic on cotton duck and calico
182 x 172 cm 71 5/8 x 67 3/4 in.

Decline (with #1), 2024
Oil and acrylic on linen and calico with painted wooden frame
124 x 62 cm 48 13/16 x 24 7/16 in.

Biker III (March, April, May 2016), 2016
Oil, acrylic and collaged paper on linen
109 x 195 cm 42 7/8 x 76 3/4 in.

“Three Questions”

Kevin Ford

February 17, 2026

Volume 2
Issue 19

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Kevin Ford: Everything! I like so many things about painting that it’s hard to narrow down.

I love the basic absurdity of it. At some point people collectively agreed there was value in colored mud, and like de Kooning joked, by pushing it around, you can suddenly make a nose out of it. Kind of crazy, if you think about it.

It’s also weird and kind of solipsistic. I’m drawn to how self-contained it is. The logistics have largely been worked out over the centuries. The rectangle is decided, the container is set, and within that frame you’re responsible for every square millimeter. That responsibility feels clarifying. Within that rectangle, all of painting’s contradictions are available at once: window and surface, gravity and flatness, illusion and material. You can let those opposites collapse into each other or hold them apart. It’s all there to play with.

Painting for me is also a deeply solitary activity, which suits me as an introvert. I like spending long stretches alone, working with my eyes, hands, and brain, gnawing on questions that people have been gnawing on for thousands of years. It feels like a meaningful way to use time. 

GB: Given that basic absurdity you describe, what keeps painting from tipping into irony for you? What makes it something you believe in rather than just enjoy?

KF: Well, the second part of the de Kooning quote goes on to say, “to not do it is just as absurd.” In a way, that becomes a kind of permission structure to indulge something that doesn’t make much logical sense but makes deep sense on a human level. It frames painting as something that doesn’t need to justify itself through logic. It makes sense as an impulse to communicate, to leave evidence of having been here.

It’s a kind of trust. If you trust that you’re deeply engaged in something, that it feels fulfilling, and that you feel it strongly enough to center it in your life, then zooming out to recognize its absurdity is important, but not especially helpful to dwell on day to day. You trust the feeling, trust the intuition, and then move on. What keeps painting from slipping into irony is that irony is almost the opposite of what I’m describing. Irony puts up a wall, it creates distance.

It creates a buffer. It lets you stand outside of the thing.

For me, painting demands the opposite. It requires commitment, presence, and a willingness to take the activity seriously, even while recognizing how strange it is. Painting is my desire to communicate, a communication that unfolds in real time, in the existential moment of making a painting, or rather in the many existential moments that make up making a painting: addition, subtraction, painting over, wiping out, sanding down, adding back, correcting, backtracking, moving forward. All of this is in service of trying to convey something that feels “right.” And “right” is always elusive. So, when I talk about absurdity, I’m talking about that condition, and less about slapstick or humor, although humor absolutely plays a role in my work. I’m not against humor; I’m just wary of ironic humor or detached humor. For me, the absurdity of painting isn’t a punchline, it’s a condition.

I grew up in the 1990s, when irony was very much my generation’s stock and trade. Everything was met with an eye roll. At the time, I participated in that culture because there was nothing else. It was almost like being a landscape painter during the height of Abstract Expressionism, when everyone felt compelled to adopt the fashion of the day. But I never found success with that bearing. It never quite felt like me. I’m more interested in staying close, to material, to the act of looking, to the experience of trying. Irony functions as a kind of armor, a way of insulating one’s self from commitment or belief. It’s taken me a long time to step outside the capital-F Fashion of my time and chart my own path. Sincerity, even when it’s awkward or unfashionable, feels more urgent to me. Humor still plays a role in the work, but it isn’t meant to undermine meaning, it’s meant to keep the work human and aware of its own fragility.

While I get an immense amount of joy from mixing paint, applying it to a surface, stepping back, looking, judging, adding things, it’s not only about joy. The process doesn’t always go smoothly, and I often set up obstacles to make sure it doesn’t go smoothly. That precludes it from being something I simply enjoy. What makes it something I believe in is that there’s always something at stake. The process resists ease. Paint misbehaves, decisions have consequences, and the work asks to be rebuilt again and again through failure, frustration, and doubt. That friction keeps it from becoming just a casual pleasure.

I think many artists are walking a tightrope between two or more opposing dialectics that they’ve set up for themselves. Mine are the ones we’re circling here: what does it mean to have a life, or something in your life, that gives it meaning and purpose, while also holding it loosely enough to enjoy the ride? For much of my artistic life, I either gripped things too tightly or too loosely. Over the last decade or so, I’ve been trying to calibrate that sweet spot, where absurdity remains generative without tipping into schlock, and seriousness doesn’t harden into rigidity.

In the studio, that often looks like a lot of swearing. When I feel like I’ve “messed” something up, or when I realize a better version of the painting existed three versions ago and I’ve now painted over it, I swear. Or when a drip ruins a passage, or the paint is too viscous, too opaque, too transparent, or just won’t lay flat, I swear. The fact that I’m swearing while making a painting that might ultimately end up being of a butt tells me there are stakes involved. I’m not doing this merely for its therapeutic value or for enjoyment. There’s also something funny about how seriously I have to take a joke in order for it to land correctly. That seriousness is what tells me I’m not in it only for the pleasure of the moment, that there’s something else I’m trying to reach. The frustration is the tug of wanting more from this process.

That’s a long-winded way of saying that I don’t worry about it too much. I don’t sweat it. I know I’m a serious person; I trust my instincts; I trust the hours I spend painting, thinking about painting, looking at painting, talking about painting, and I know I’m not that unique. So, if I find something genuinely interesting or funny, I trust that there’s at least one or two other people out there who might find something in it too. Belief, for me, doesn’t come from conviction so much as from staying in that tension, holding painting open long enough for it to register as a lived experience rather than just a gesture or an object.

GB: If someone spends five quiet minutes with one of your paintings, what do you hope happens in that time?

KF: First, I’d be honored, especially now, when there’s so much competition for attention. The idea that anyone would give a painting that kind of time already feels meaningful. Today, five minutes would be the equivalent of half-a-day 30 or 40 years ago! I’d hope that even though I’m trying to capture a freshness in it, an all-at-once quality that I’m trying to preserve, I also hope there’s a sense that thought and care went into its making, or at least into the philosophy behind how it was made.

Ideally, the painting would begin to unfold for the viewer. Little breadcrumbs were left behind during the making. Maybe they could reverse-engineer how it came into being. I hope a viewer senses the material process, the layering, wiping out, and reworking that happens as the surfaces shift and transmute, moving from the abstract to the representational and back again, trying to capture a fleeting moment and bring it into being as directly as possible. There might be a circuitous route from first recognition into a series of associations, memories of similar objects or experiences they’ve had with something they may have previously overlooked or only glanced at in passing. There’s also hopefully some humor in elevating an ordinary or forgotten thing into the subject of a painting. Painting tends to carry a particular weight of history, and sometimes there is a feeling that the subject of a painting needs to be monumental or lofty, so there can be some absurdity when something modest is given that sort of attention.

A more “informed” viewer might pick up on art-historical references or links to the broader history of painting, but hopefully that knowledge isn’t necessary for enjoyment or appreciation. While I hope the paintings function on multiple levels, a bit of capital P Painting knowledge can enhance the experience, I think? As someone spends more time with the work, new associations might emerge. It might feel like looking at something half-remembered or being made or disappearing in front of you. Hopefully elemental forms connect to other forms. You might start noticing similarities between the shape of an outlet and a window, or a pool seen from overhead, or any number of things. There might also be a retinal or optical effect, a physical one, with color vibrations in the Albers sense, which points to the fact that perception is a physical thing, an act, that also brings in psychological components that create subjectivity in the act of viewing.

My subjectivity in the viewing and depicting of an object or experience meets the viewer’s subjectivity in their viewing of my viewing and making, and there is some acknowledgement or exchange, or comfort in that. The viewer’s subjectivity and mine occupy the same space. Two people, at different moments in time, standing in front of the same object, each bringing their own experience to it. I hope after five minutes of looking a viewer might feel that openness, or generosity or space to move around, optically, emotionally and intellectually.
That is all the best-case-scenario, but it can also be a purely pleasurable aesthetic experience that celebrates presence and looking, which wouldn’t be so bad either.

Kevin Ford is interested in intense looking. Using a combination of delicate brushwork and loose airbrushing, he blends the languages of Spanish still lifes, cartoons, and color field abstraction to bring a sense of historic urgency to overlooked, everyday objects. Kevin received his BFA in Painting from Boston University and his MFA in Painting and Printmaking from Yale. His work has been included in solo exhibitions at 12.26 Gallery, Dallas, TX, Hesse Flatow, New York, NY, Semiose Galerie, Paris, FR, Kate Werble Gallery, New York, NY, and Tops Gallery, Memphis, TN. Kevin's work has been exhibited in group exhibitions at The Center for Maine Contemporary Art, ME, Inman Gallery, TX, Reyes Finn, MI, Casey Kaplan, NY, The Islip Art Museum, NY, Tops Gallery, TN, and elsewhere. He has attended residencies at Millay Arts, Austerlitz, NY, Chateau d'Orquevaux, Champagne-Ardenne, France, and the Vermont Studio Center, Johnson, VT. His work has been featured in V Magazine, included in the book Artists II, published by Steidl, and has been reviewed in Artforum, The New York Times, and other publications.

Installation shot of Kevin Ford’s “More” at March, NYC,
December 11 -February 21, 2026

Jasmine, 2025
Acrylic on panel
12 3/4 x 9 7/8 inches

Bronze Mask, 2025
Acrylic on panel, framed
10 x 9 inches

“Three Questions”

Matt Bollinger
February 4, 2026

Volume 2
Issue 18

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Matt Bollinger: I'm drawn to handmade things, seeing the traces of the making. Painting's innate plasticity excites me and all the various ways people use it. For me there's something transformative in the process of finding form for events or stories from the world or the imagination. But I also love the material itself. In the morning I make tea and go into the studio. I have a big set of shelves full of jars and jugs and tubes of paint. I get a thrill from that, from squeezing paint out or stirring together a mixture. I have a cart with colors I've mixed up and I can pick them up and arrange a palette. The alchemy of paint--my mixtures in cups with lids gradually thickening to the perfect consistency--it is innately seductive stuff. Because of the handmade qualities that attract me, I love seeing how the strange individuality of the painter gets caught on the canvas, seems to live there.

GB: When you look at painters whose work feels unmistakably their own—artists you return to for that sense of individuality—do you think that quality is something they’re consciously trying to achieve, or is it something that emerges once intention gives way to the physical and procedural realities of painting?

MB: I think that sense of individuality has to come from the process or it reads as affectation. The cumulative problem solving decisions shape the appearance of the work. Sometimes something new emerges and I find myself wondering if this is what my stuff is going to look like now? There are all of these internal metrics of taste and sensibility that determine what gets to stay in a painting. I was thinking about the way Mernet Larsen said she started using her blocky figures. All of the old perspective manuals she was looking at to solve how to make space had figures made from simple solids. When she put more organic figures against those geometric environments they clashed. Making blocky figures solved this second problem and opened up a hugely more individual and weirder way of making things. In the Guston documentary, he talks about his ab-ex work as though he was climbing a mountain and had almost gotten to the top, but then he saw a side path and said, "I wonder what's over here." Those side quests are really what it's all about.

GB: Your paintings don’t feel like they announce change; they kind of absorb it. I’m wondering how you experience that from the inside. When something starts to veer—just slightly—do you try to correct it, or do you go on the side quest and see where it leads?

MB: In the past, I made more abrupt changes in my work. After a show I had back in 2008, I quit oil painting and changed my process entirely. For about two years I made nothing but drawings. When I returned to working with color, I made painted paper collages and did that for a few years. More recently the changes have been incremental. I think being absorbed into the work has made those small changes feel significant and it's likely I'm more attached to the language I've been developing in my paintings. For the first time, I've lost the feeling of being encumbered by a desire to make the work differently, which in the past presented as a restless feeling. Perhaps I've landed on something that feels more natural. Just the same, the work changes all of the time to me in a large part because I shift how I approach my subjects. For instance, I've recently been working with images of figures in motion, which is new to me outside of my animations. Last year I finished a big painting of a parade where different depths of figures are passing by, the foreground group moving toward the left seems to notice that they're being watched and look out at the viewer. This combination of a "scene" with an awareness of the audience had an interesting tension to me. The canvas seemed too big with too much of a feeling of being able to walk into it to not have the world of the painting notice me standing there.

Ithaca-based artist Matt Bollinger works from a complex interdisciplinary base: as painter, draftsman, animator, and elegist, he creates work that straddles the projects of both visual art and narrative fiction. Buoyed by an early interest in American modernism as well as personal and familial origins in the Midwest, Bollinger tells stories by and large of America’s rural working class. Each is composed through a bricolage of memory, family history, direct observation, art-historical research, and literary invention. Through empathetic and meticulously crafted vignettes, Bollinger’s work offers poignant reflections on issues of labor, class, and the passage of time, encouraging viewers to sift through his vivid, often conflicted pastorales for a clear imperative of their own.

Matt Bollinger (b. 1980 Kansas City, MO) was awarded a BFA from Kansas City Art Institute (2003) and an MFA from Rhode Island School of Art and Design (2007). His recent solo exhibitions include François Ghebaly, New York; mother’s tankstation, London and Dublin; Zürcher Gallery, New York and Paris; and M+B, Los Angeles. Bollinger’s work has featured in recent museum exhibitions including The Westmoreland Museum of American Art, Greensburg, Pennsylvania (2022); South Bend Museum of Art, Indiana (2020); Phillips Museum, Lancaster, Pennsylvania (2018); Nerman Museum, Overland Park, Kansas (2016); and Musée d’Art Moderne et Contemporain, Saint-Etienne (2016).

Homecoming
Flashe and acrylic on canvas
96 x 144”
2025
Photo by Paul Salveson

Installation view at François Ghebaly Gallery, 2025
Photo by Paul Salveson

Before Work
Flashe and acrylic on canvas
60 x 78”
2025
Photo by Paul Salveson

“Three Questions”

Amy Winstanley

January 22, 2026

Volume 2
Issue 17

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Amy Winstanley: I like paintings pliancy; the flexibility of the material itself, being able to intuitively move it around but also how it creates a space for a pliancy of the mind, so to speak – a space in which I am opened up for expansive thought processes. In the physical act of painting I am tuning into the hand, the heart and the head simultaneously. I like paintings endless possibilities, the potential for the painting to change at any moment. I like how any mark, visible or not, is a part of the paintings history, and contains the vibrancy of the hand that made it.

GB: There’s a lightness to your touch even when the surface feels worked and dense. How do you calibrate pressure, illumination, and color to arrive at that balance?

AW: I think keeping things free and flowing by working on a number of canvases concurrently helps, and also breaking up the painting process by physically moving the work around the studio a lot, placing things on the floor, the wall, the desk, upside down etc. Also making sure I don't get stale in my painting by including listening, reading and writing into my studio day. All of which enriches the work itself. I think arriving at the balance you mention is also down to me mostly taking an intuitive approach to mark making and colour choosing, but peppered with more conscious decision making throughout the journey of a painting. So really there's a felt sense of balance (even if that's an awkward feeling of balance) that I'm consciously, and subconsciously, aiming for in the work.

GB: When that intuitive, sometimes uneasy balance takes shape in the painting, what kind of encounter do you hope the viewer has with it? Are you inviting a similarly bodily, intuitive way of looking, or do you see the work holding space for viewers to sit with uncertainty and arrive at their own sense of balance over time?

AW: I suppose both, but sitting with uncertainty is where I am trying to be within my life and my work and that is perhaps what I aim for in the viewing experience. I want the viewer to be able to see things that might be a suggestion of something familiar, but is also strange, and might prompt a feeling or memory, but also doesn’t quite crystalise. Things are constantly in flux, intra-acting. Bayo Akomolafe says “We begin at the edges in the middle”, and this makes sense to me when viewing a painting – there is no beginning or end point that we arrive at necessarily; it is more some sort of messy middle where feelings fizz and brew and we can’t quite pin point our exact thoughts – but ultimately that is what expands us and opens us up to the infinite, just like the endless possibilities in making a painting.

Amy Winstanley (born 1983, UK) is an artist based in south west Scotland. She has a MA from the Sandberg Instituut, Amsterdam (2017-19) and a BA (Hons) in Sculpture from the Edinburgh College of Art (2001-05).

Amy's paintings are a reflection of the continual flux of all things whilst the action of painting, and immediacy of paint, fosters a means to take ahold of, and explore, her ideas. She is fascinated with entanglement on all scales, the intertwining of human and nonhuman relationships, and reads into eco-philosophy, feminist theory, and indigenous thought. Whilst painting, thoughts merge from this research with intuitive mark making drawn from personal experience, emotion and memory. As a result the paintings reside between a suggestion of things and an un-doing of depiction in a fluid way.

Recent solo exhibitions include, Life Hum, Margot Samel, New York (2025), Focus programme at Workplace Gallery, London (2025), Homing at Ginsberg Gallery, Lima, Peru (2024), Soft Spot at A_Place gallery, Glasgow (2024), Slim Glimpses at Cample Line, Dumfriesshire (2023) and Lost Hapat Margot Samel, New York (2023). Recent group exhibitions include The Persistence of Painting, Patricia Fleming, Glasgow (2025), Out of Earth, The Approach, London (2024), Opening at A_Place, Glasgow (2023) and Strangers at Rongwrong, Amsterdam (2022).

Amy is represented by Margot Samel, New York.

The artist in her studio.
Image courtesy the artist.

Installation view of “Life Hum” at Margot Samel, NYC.
Image courtesy the artist and Margot Samel.

An Attempt at Resonance
2025
Oil on canvas
84x76cm

“Three Questions”

Ben Styer

December 3, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 16

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Ben Styer: I like how painting makes me lose track of time, and I like the way it seems to connect me to an outside world of people I'll never meet. I like the practice of painting because it comes with permission to be free and unafraid. Painting is a weird way of trying to be present within yourself, trying to follow the questions you have, find out what’s deep in that head of yours! it can be both an act of loving and interrogating yourself or the world.

GB: This is a powerful and deeply resonant answer. I love how you describe painting as a kind of disappearing act of time, a dive into an “outside world of people I’ll never meet,” and simultaneously an intimate dialogue with yourself. Your phrase “permission to be free and unafraid” is especially strong and captures the paradoxical mix of vulnerability and courage that painting invites. You describe painting as a way of becoming present with yourself — a space where freedom, fearlessness, and self-interrogation all coexist. In your own work, which often navigates the uncanny, the playful, and the psychologically charged, how do those internal states shape what actually appears on the canvas? Do you feel the painting leads you deeper into those questions, or does it sometimes answer them for you in ways you don’t expect?

BS: Finished paintings do answer me in ways I wouldn't expect all the time, and new experiences with them can happen at any time. I often only understand the edges around the meaning of what I'm making or why I'm making it, until later maybe. sometimes i can be very decisive that This Thing goes There, etc., but there’s no chance of explaining why. it’s a matter of feeling like I know, or submitting to not knowing. The activity is intuition-based, and about trust.

it leads to a difficult question about honesty in painting. Sometimes paintings are ultimately about escape or avoidance; sometimes they are trying to reconcile a part of you that’s hard to stare directly at. you can misdirect yourself in painting and realize after…the painful part of the practice is that it has to evolve through your own self doubt and criticism, even loathing…your ongoing dissatisfaction with the product, you…which finds a way to reemerge always.

There's a balance every time between what’s being fully articulated in a painting and what space is being left there as an open field of possibility. I try not to force connections or meanings into shapes, but rather keep their functions loose. I present things together that I'm urged to believe connect in wordless ways, and trust that they lead to a form of honesty I can't otherwise explain.

Paintings can be from a place of peace or joy or dissonance or fear, and what they convey contains but doesn’t solve those states of being. experiencing them and knowing what they mean are separate things. In a way, sensing your own vantage is all you have as an artist.

GB: When your paintings eventually meet an audience, do you think of the viewer as stepping into the same emotional terrain you inhabited while making the work, or do you imagine each person establishing their own distinct vantage point? What are your hopes for the viewer?

BS: I have an always-changing idea of what my paintings do for people. much of the time i can’t know. I see that for me, painting has been functionally based around finding peace, so that’s my clue. I've heard a few times that viewers see lost loved ones in my figures, and that makes sense to me.

In recent years I've veered heavy into personal reference, piling esoteric, sometimes vague ‘emotional terrain’—as you call it—into the work with a loose attitude. I've learned through doing this: as I get more miscellaneous AND more ultra-specific in my imagery, it sets up an automatic mystery for the viewer and also for me, which I find curious. some viewers will see my intimate objects in unforeseen, foreign ways.

As the subject matter is so varied and inward-facing, it becomes about something other than knowing all the footnotes, and more toward an instinctual understanding of all the parts working together at once, and what their exchange brings to light.

As viewers we visit these personal landscapes of others and when they resonate deeply, even in unfamiliar terrain, they’re our own landscapes. Within that ownership there’s so much unknown to contend with, but on some level it knows you, and you know it. Finding this experience is special and mysterious. It tells us our secrets look the same.

Ben Styer (b. 1990 Boston, MA) lives and works in Los Angeles, CA. He received his BFA from the University of Massachusetts in 2015 and has had solo presentations at SHRINE (New York, NY) and Moskowitz Bayse (Los Angeles, CA). Styer was included in a group presentation at Fortnight Institute (New York, NY), and his work is a part of the permanent collection of the Dallas Museum of Art in Dallas, TX.

Ben Styer, Little Music Box Stories, at Shrine (NYC), installation shot.
(Image courtesy Shrine and the artist)

Random Rainbow, 2025, acrylic on canvas, 20 x 16 in.
(image courtesy Shrine and the artist)

Bakery Hours, 2024, acrylic on canvas, 20 x 16 in.
(Image courtesty Shrine and the artist)

“Three Questions”

Catherine Haggarty
November 21, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 15

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Catherine Haggarty: I appreciate that painting requires my senses to be alert and reactionary in real time. I like that painting is a call and response and that painting is reliable but flexible. I love that painting keeps my brain busy outside the studio, I’m always dreaming of it. I like that painting provides possibilities and collaborations with the past, present and even potentially the future. I like that painting is a forever language.

GB: Your paintings often intertwine the natural logic of wood grain with the deliberate act of folding—one a pattern grown slowly over time, the other a gesture of sudden interruption. How do you see these two rhythms—organic continuity and abrupt crease—speaking to one another in your work?

CH: I think of all of my work as a collage of forms. I am not terribly interested in everything making sense but these colliding patterns and forms are speaking to each other for sure, that is the joy of painting. I don't know their conversation's conclusion, but I am interested in their echo.

GB: If painting is a “forever language,” with you in, out, and beyond the studio, open and echoing, what do you hope your voice in it will carry forward?

CH: I suppose thinking that my voice could be carried forward at all would be humbling and rewarding. Cultivating a voice takes time and courage and if the paintings and drawings reflect that - then I’ve done something. How it is carried forward or if it is - isn’t always something an artist can discern or organize; but being a part of a long and nuanced history of artists is certainly something to hope for.

What a gift all of it is.

Catherine Haggarty, b. 1984, is an artist based in Brooklyn, New York.

Haggarty’s paintings and curatorial work have been reviewed by and featured in Bomb Magazine, Artnet, Hyperallergic, Art Forum, Two Coats of Paint, Brooklyn Magazine, The New York Times, Art Maaze Magazine, Art Spiel, Pep Talks for Artists, Sound and Vision Podcast and The Observer.

Catherine has been a visiting artist & critic at Cornell MFA (2024), Rocky Mountain College of Art (2024), Western Connecticut MFA (2023), Contemporary Arts Memphis (2023), Vassar College (2023), Rutgers MFA (2022), U Albany MFA (2022), MICA (2022), UCONN MFA (2022 + 2023), RISD BFA (2022), Pratt BFA (2022), The University of Oregon (2021), Boston University MFA (2021), SUNY Purchase MFA (2020), Hunter MFA (2020), Denison University (2020), Brooklyn College MFA (2019) and in 2018 Haggarty was the Anderson Endowed Lecturer at Penn State University.

Solo & Two Person exhibitions include: Deanna Evans (NYC), Untitled Miami, Lorin Gallery, LA, Geary Contemporary (NYC), Massey Klein Gallery (NYC), This Friday Next Friday (Brooklyn), Bloomsburg University (PA), and Look and Listen in Marseille France. Select group exhibitions include: The PIT (LA), Badr El Jundi (Madrid, Spain), Mindy Solomon (Miami, FL), Andrew Rafcaz (Chicago, IL), Hesse Flatow (NYC), Mrs (Maspeth, NY) and McBride Contemporary in Montreal, Canada.

Haggarty earned her M.F.A from Mason Gross, Rutgers University in 2011. Haggarty is the Founder, Owner and Executive Director of The Canopy Program which is a one year mentorship program within the NYC Crit Club which Haggarty co-founded in 2017. In addition, Haggarty is a Visiting Associate Professor at Pratt Institute.

Haggarty was the Spring 2024 Teiger Mentor for the Arts at Cornell AAP MFA and in the Winter of 2024 was recently was a Visiting Artist at Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design (Denver, CO) on the occasion of her Solo Exhibition ‘Stay the course’ featuring ten years of work at The Philip J. Steele Gallery.

The artist in her studio.

Mystic Time, 2024
Acrylic and water color on canvas

Keys I, 2024
Acrylic and watercolor on canvas

“Three Questions”

Julie Torres

October 29, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 14

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Julie Torres: What I like best about painting is that it provides an outlet for my toxic traits and channels them in a (hopefully) productive way: impulsivity, impatience, rage, obsessiveness. It’s comforting to get lost in the making and to tune everything else out, most of all my own mind. The flow state can be a healing force. Painting is the closest I have gotten to the subconscious in the waking world.

GB: How do those states of intensity — impulsivity, rage, obsessiveness — translate into specific choices in the studio, like palette, brushwork, or the pace of your mark-making?

JT: The materials I’ve chosen, and painting process overall, are a direct result of an almost pathological impatience. No stretching, gessoing or sanding of surfaces. No solvents, mediums or elaborate setup. Acrylic paint is applied out of the jar onto wood panels, and mixed on the surface. I crave this immediacy as a way of staying present and excited about what I’m doing, but this method does not typically yield an immediate painting. Many attempts can be made on the same surface for days, weeks, months and sometimes years, before anything interesting happens. Over time, textured layers of paint build up like a crust. This is how I’ve taught myself to build a surface, and to allow a painting to appear. Although the paintings don’t always come quickly, the building of layers comes through the action of painting itself, which feeds my impulsive tendencies in a way that planning and preparation can’t. It is cathartic to throw the paint around, and to trust that something will happen.

GB: When someone encounters your paintings, they don’t just see surface and color—they bring their own unconscious expectations about what those materials ‘mean.’ How do you think about those projections, and do you want to guide them or unsettle them?

JT: Defying expectations is satisfying when it happens, but fixating on a desired outcome can be debilitating. I try to block out those voices and not focus on end results. Experimentation, accidental mishaps, and outright destruction of unresolved paintings have led to the most surprising developments. I have never found a shortcut to those places. In the meantime, I try to make paintings that hold my own attention and navigate the chaos as best I can.

Julie Torres is a Hudson NY artist and curator. Her artwork has been shown in recent exhibitions at NADA New York, Tappeto Volante in Brooklyn, Pocket Utopia and Peninsula on the Lower East Side, Driveway in Rockaway Beach, RUTHANN in Catskill NY, and Susan Eley Fine Art in Hudson NY. Torres’ artwork and curatorial projects have been featured in the Wall Street Journal, Huffington Post, Hyperallergic, Brooklyn Rail, Two Coats of Paint, Chronogram, and on NPR and PBS. Since April 2018, she has co-directed LABspace gallery in Hillsdale NY with her partner, artist Ellen Letcher.

peel sessions, 2025
acrylic on wood panel
8 x 9 x 7 inches

nosy, 2016-2025
acrylic on wood
10.5 x 10.5 x 2 inches

lady fingers, 2025
acrylic on wood panel
8 x 8 inches

Emily Sussman

Interviews

Beau Gabriel

October 10, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 13

Emily Sussman: Walk me through your career thus far—how did you come to be an artist?

Beau Gabriel: I’ve been drawing as long as I can remember—my very first artistic things that made me excited were the TinTin comics and those N.C Wyeth illustrations of Treasure Island in the Robert Louis Stevenson Books. I didn’t study art, I studied Russian Literature, and at the same time I was venturing into classical music, I played the Oboe – It was really after university when I ended up in Paris working as a paralegal, which was a move. Looking back I think it was the time spent in Paris and in much closer proximity not just to the works themselves and the very illustrious European tradition but in the sense close to the physical spaces and the mentalities that I could imagine had originally produced this type of work. After a few years there I realized in a serious way what I wanted to be doing so I went back to school for art and ended up in London to do an MA at the Royal College there. There was one painting that made me want to become a painter—the Pontormo deposition (ed. Note The Deposition from the Cross, Jacopo Pontormo, 1528-1528) this work made at the peak of mannerism which I saw in Florence and it had just been restored after centuries and centuries of accumulating soot from candles and slowly yellowing after yet another coat of varnish, it finally had a complete clean and it had these colors to it that were to me completely unexpected.

ES: How did you develop this show, Beau Gabriel: Blackberry Rondo (ed. On view at Carvahlo from June 13-July 26, 2025)

BG: This series all takes place in Corte Medera which is a town in Marin County in the Bay Area just outside of San Francisco where my mom grew up. Originally it was her grandfather who moved there- it’s a place that’s always seemed at the heart of something very personal [to me], I think through my mom. Though she has spent much of her adult life on the east coast she remains very connected to this place – it figures perhaps more prominently than anything else in her idea of herself and of the world in general and I think much of that was passed on to me and to my brother. Over the past two years the paintings have increasingly sought out some sort of connection, some sort of meaning between European art which has been so inspirational to me and serves as the model in so much of what I do, and then also my own experience, my own memories, my own system of what I hold dear and find beautiful and what provokes a sense of searching in me.

ES: Yeah, looking at these I’m very struck by the similarities between the baroque and renaissance landscape, particularly the northern landscape and the landscape in California.

BG: It’s very true the landscape of Northen California, especially when you get into west Marin with these rolling hills which in the summer kind of birth to this golden brown color, and that of Tuscany and Sienna, are very similar. For this series in particular- I was drawn to an earlier era of Italian art. Pontormo and the mannerist still figure prominently but over the past year, and I was very lucky to have spent two months last year in Sienna at a residency and had a show there, I’m more and more finding that this earlier mode of Italian painting, and the questions those painters were setting out to answer, at the end of the day these paintings are about some type of search. Searching through the medium of painting and drawing to find some nugget of meaning, in my personal life and in life in general. In those earlier paintings there’s a remarkable and moving tension between an increasingly powerful formal ability to depict the natural world and then something more spiritual and perhaps psychological that comes with that, which places the painter in the midst in all this meaning.

ES: It’s interesting you situate your work currently in the mannerist tradition, because when I look at it (and It’s not that I don’t see that, I obviously do), I still see a lot of Baroque, late Renaissance like Gentileschi. I’m curious about this portrait in particular (Woman with a Thistle, 2025, Oil on panel, 40 x 30 cm.) which feels much more situated in an earlier renaissance oeuvre.

BG: IT’s the great privilege and fun of drawing on these traditions here and now. The painting that inspired the series was this one that was the result of looking at Ucello and even more specifically at his cycle of frescoes in Florence at S. Maria Novella which are about the life of Noah so the depict the biblical flood and are also painted in this rather limited palette, like he created his own pink—

ES: For me it’s the Lippi cycle in that cathedral but to each their own. (Laughs)

BG: (Laughs) Oh yes, that also for sure. The series before took place in Maine and was all Ghirlandaio. We are now the vessels that carry all this imagery with us. This work is very closely modeled on a tradition that was all the rage in late 15th century Florence- the profile portrait often with a more abstracted background. So here, there’s one of my favorite paintings in the National Gallery in London by Alesso Baldovenetti – [as inspiration]. This figure is who is portrayed here is a very old and dear friend of mine named Madeline who grew up in the same part of California and whose mother and my grandmother were best friends as young brides who found each other in this community just after the second world war- and so each generation of our families has formed friendships. She appears throughout as an allegorical figure who represents in some ways the essence of the place, and also my connection and her connection to it which is increasingly based on memory. The thistle that she has pinned to her shirt actually comes from the show I did in Sienna last year which was called, “Roadside Thistles.” In which the thistle, by virtue of being a quite exquisite and previous thing but also one that will of course, prick you.

ES: In most of the portraiture of the renaissance, particularly of women, the symbols all kind of indicate one’s virginity and purity, loyalty, piety you know all those fun catholic things.

BG: Yeah I’ve had this conversation with friends and even my own mother about this. Recently there was an exhibit here in New York the Sienna- I don’t know if you-

ES: The Siena one—It was just at the National Gallery.

BG: Right it was at The Met and then the National Gallery—I think you know for some people it can be difficult perhaps, I mean you can appreciate those paintings just for the sheer beauty—their beauty as objects especially with all the gold and precious pigments–

ES: Sumptuous objects.

BG: That are on them. But I think yeah when it does come to this sort of perhaps catholic imagery and symbology, it has the potential to form a bit of a barrier because it’s obviously a bit of a different world from the one we live in today—

ES: Yeah.

BG: And yet at the same token I mean I think going back to what I said earlier about painting as a means to ask questions and understand something more about yourself I think some of that stuff doesn’t really change.

ES: It does stay somewhat consistent.

BG: To endow a figure which in this case is half real half imaginary with attributes that represent something that is at the end of the day something meaningful I think it made sense here, The relationships which are at the bottom of this series, to my mother, in general of people to a place which is where they’re from that feels like home. There’s something quite fundamental and age -old to these ideas. A lot of my painting at this point is much the same of any figurative painter working today you know there’d be sort of these big themes that drive what we’re doing one obviously being that of constructing this sort of personal identity, I think the other being this often tongue in cheek relationship with history.

This era of painting is at once so recognizable and unownable and I do think for certain artists and a certain public maybe that’s the more interesting way of engaging with it. I feel quite like I’ve arrived at a different approach, one that feels you know, almost tapped into certain impulses as to reasons why this art was created in the first place, that also feels very necessary and urgent for my own self.

ES: You’ve mentioned that this figure that you pointed out earlier is based on a real person but are the figures in your work typically real or imaginary or an amalgam of the two?

BG: All the models are real friends of mine- my partner, so in terms of the process they all start with very real people who at one point or another have either come to the studio to pose or we’ve been out walking in the park and I’ve asked (laughs) if they can hold still for a moment—

ES: (Laughs) Nice!

BG: in the right line, or what they’re’ wearing is you know, I can see it being a painting. That being said yeah there’s a point where I wouldn’t consider any of them portraits –I do think though, I’ve sometimes in the past compared what I do with these paintings to the idea of putting on a theatrical performance with a group of friends – a pageant of sorts, where you kind of think up what or how a person can be transformed into a figure that represents something that of course has very real elements of what they are and my relationship to them which then at the same time belongs purely to the realm of imagination. I think there’s a parallel in that to the way I relate to places like Marin county and my mother’s home. A lot of it, especially as a life takes you away from it, increasingly becomes something that perhaps is in a way more real for me through imagination.

ES: Sure, memory is such a complex beast in that way. In prep for this, I looked up if Russian literature had any connection to memory and I came up with some weird results, apparently, for example War and Peace is full of instances. I came across this more recent book “In Memory of Memory” by Maria Stephanova came up in my research, it’s quite new—

BG: War and peace, actually, this painting at the far end of the night was initially the spark started the first sketch, was a direct connection to war and peace which I read as an undergrad. I had this distinct memory of a scene in which there are two characters (I can’t remember actually if it was from “War and Peace” or “Anna Karenina”) are in the midst of an existential conversation as they more often than not are in these book, but they’re crossing a flooded river as night is falling and there’s this very vivid description of the evening sky being reflected in all of the pools that have been left by the receded waters.

ES: How do you feel about narrative playing into the work? Huge theme in Renaissance work as well.

BG: Of course! And its something that for a while, when I first got started painting I avoided for a while. There’s an idea perhaps that narrative is either slightly old fashioned or antiquated approach or perhaps more than that I felt I didn’t have a story worth telling. I think that’s true with any mode of painting- starting out as a painter so much of your work is trying to get a correct grip on technique, on form, finding a style and a way of actually using paint that works for you, but I’m all for- I’m thoroughly in the narrative camp now so much so that I’m considering the next series of work- and I think that will very much be a part of it.

ES: That kind of leads into another question I had where I think that these works are really interesting because they so aptly combine the current (whatever that is, even if it’s really the past) and the longer arc of art history. I was curious where that kind of painting will be in the future (the combination of the traditional and the modern), or where your painting will be in the future?

BG: (laughs) that’s an interesting question

ES: Tough, yeah I know.

BG: it’s hard to say, I think, I guess there are painters who think about the future of their works. I will confess that, my work has always been about taking, scooping something out from the present and looking backwards with it. I think that for me that’s kind of enough at this point. I’m quite proud of how these paintings have emerged and stand right here right now as evidence of me and where I come from I leave the projection into the future to someone else. Painting, especially a series like this- as a painter you’re constantly trying to figure stuff out – there have been some interesting things that have emerged that make me excited about things to come. Some of them are very technical- a rose matter pink, a terre verte green earth (points to colors), You know compositional, compositional forms – here you have this perhaps contrast between this painting in its composition which is perhaps mannerist or pushing against the threshold of baroque (Points to center piece I can’t find the title of yet) against something (points to Willows , 2025, oil on panel) linear and owes a stylistic or compositional debt to the likes of Botticelli

ES: Certainly in the way you’ve made the S curve of the bodies as well.

BG: I do find that in some ways this older period of Italian painting has elements that increasingly strike me as very American.

ES: Could you extrapolate on that a little bit?

BG: Yeah, I think in the stylization and in the abstraction of certain elements whether that’s landscapes or its in what people are wearing, by painting perhaps more the idea or even the idealized essence of something rather than every particular detail of its so-called- realness you actually are creating something quite expansive in an image where you suddenly have the room for a lot of projection and imagination to come in an fill these spots where you’ve left—

ES: Sure.

BG: half empty as it were and I think back in the 15th or even 14th century a lot of that was done because so much of the world was a mystery. As Americans we – just the vastness of our physical continent but also the vastness of our great enterprise. Peter Shjeldahl, who has a really great essay, I think it was a review of one of the Whitney biennials, describes Americans as “Water droplets skittered about on a hot plate.”

ES: I can’t believe that stuck with you for so long.

BG: It’s quite a memorable image—It’s the idea of something unrealized which creates excitement, it creates tension, perhaps its more foreboding at times but to then, as Americans, to then pin our own sense of who we are onto something so vast I think is really so interesting and in the sense that European traditions have been working within very well—established geometric confines. Florence and Sienna traded and had interactions with people from all around the world remained a very discrete bit of land as did dogmas of political power and church power. I think for Americans it can almost be too much at times.

ES: It doesn’t feel that dissimilar. Which of the works did you start first?

BG: Good question—I believe it was this one—(The Flood, 2025, oil on panel) the larger compositions are a result of a very specific and traditional technical process- they start off as drawings, very small-scale sketches trying to figure out composition and relationship between figures and then culminate in these drawings called cartoons which are full scale drawings and are especially useful for nuances in drapery

ES: I can’t believe you made cartoons!

BG: Yes, so these ones are—you know they’re always a bit piecemeal you’ve got you know, you start to put these figures together and then you cut them out as you realize they’re not quite right—but then yeah they’re traces and traced onto the panel which you can still see.

ES: Yeah I can see some of the pencil work.

BG: Lines, which, yeah in the past I’ve used kind of a traditional black chalk to trace.

ES: that is very traditional, yeah.

BG: So Aisha, my partner works at the British museum and the prints and drawings section is really an incredible – it is funny there are very few of these full scale drawings which actually survive. They got chewed up in the process often if you know a painting was really popular they’d reuse the cartoon to do different versions of it. Just by nature of being used in the studio-

ES: If they were used for a fresco they were gonners.

BG: Yeah exactly, they end up on the ground they end up tattered but I think this one- I always knew this image of the flood- it’s based on actual events which is when my mom was growing up on the farm they used to when there was heavy rainfall the pasture would actually flood. She told us when we were growing up the stories of canoeing around the pasture of you know, over the fence, with just the fenceposts were sticking up—

It’s remarkable how some of these images, when you look at Ucello there’s someone floating by in a barrel, there’s the little people and animals who’ve sought refuge on the remaining dry spots of ground. There are a particular few Marin things—the mountains in the background is Mt. Tamalpais it kind of towers and presides over the whole area—that tree (gestures to tree) is an actual tree that’s still on the farm that’s the chicken coop floating by in the distance.

ES: What I appreciate about this work in particular is that all the other works are somewhat grounded in reality and this one is a little fantastical, a little bit more biblical.

BG: It’s funny because it is in theory the one that’s the most real- it’s based on a real event – This one loosely, this group of women are going to plant willow trees – you can get a cutting from a live tree and if you stick it in damp soil it will eventually grow into a new tree which is something – my grandfather died when I was young but it’s one of those things I have a memory of doing with him. In a way this one is kind of - even though it’s the most based on an actual historical event it is perhaps the most fantastical at the same time.

ES: It’s an interesting line to walk.

BG: Yeah, it’s also in your imagination, especially if these things were never lived or seen with your own eyes like in the night- this structure in the background is the remains of the railroad track (This is the painting in the center of the room).

ES: Apparently it used to stand at the entrance of this farm for years and years.

BG: Yeah back in the late 19th c in Marin the railroads were very important and they built a lot of these trestles out of redwood which at the time was the cheapest and most plentiful material

ES: And now it’s like you can’t ever touch one.

BG: It’s a fun little story there—my mom has memories of this trestle, I don’t it was torn down long before I came along but I actually wrote to my uncle who’s a contractor, a builder and asked if he could

ES: Whip up the plans?

BG: in a simple sketch reconstruct this trestle and he went up to our local railroad history museum in Sacramento and found the original kind of surveys and he sent me these very beautiful very detailed plans- if I wanted to I could have rebuilt the thing to scale with all the original hardware

ES: That’s hysterical.

BG: Also in terms of this painting, is very much about the passage of time and the end of one thing and the beginning of something new. She sits on this trestle and represents something that’s been destroyed or lost but at the same time the willows that the other lot have planted are starting to grow again and the constellations are actually an exact map of the stars on the very early hours of the day my mom was born. Feburary 18, 1955—

ES: Very specific!

BG: It’s very personal symbolism.

ES: Who are you reading right now? Any favorite authors?

BG: Yeah—I actually went back to read a book that had a very profound influence on me. I actually first read it as a Russian major. Nabokov’s Speak Memory

ES: There you go!

BG: It was one of the last things he wrote I think before he died but it’s mostly concerned with his you know early life in Russia. HE talks a lot about this idea of time and memory and the things that make a place that has been long – places very much in your past and how they still live within you. If you’re an artist of some sort.

ES: Quickly while we’re in this corner (I point to the grandpa and Beau painting) is this your granddad?

BG: This is—yeah so this painting is a special one its unlike anything I’ve ever done it’s based directly on a photograph of actually me and my granddad taken not long before. he died but it is – yeah it’s one of those photographs where I sometimes feel, I have my own memories of him and the way my mom talks about him and my grandmother did before she did, but this photographs constitutes such a large part of my own idea of him and memory of him.

ES: This also feels the most modern.

BG: Yeah, I mean it’s you know, it was painted and the way that it’s cropped is the plain of the original image, it’s not like these other painting s in which these figures have been very much constructed and designed in a way to represent something but I do think that the emotions in it or at least the emotions it conjures for me are completely of a piece with the others .

ES: There’s also the way that you’ve rendered the face in a way to me is so true to memory – in so far as memory is infallible and imperfect and there’s something to that abstraction.

BG: The thing with this is that it has to exist in this somewhat unfinished state because that’s the nature of memories of someone who you loved very much and who loved you. At a certain point with this painting, I realized I couldn’t go any further.

ES: Yeah, of course.

BG: I guess it’s also a self-portrait of two- or three-year-old Beau there. There’s this painting by Hurvin Anderson of this I think it’s a mother and daughter on a frozen lake which I think he painted from a postcard – the idea of these two figures in the abstract.

ES: Are there any other contemporary painters you’re looking at right now that you’re excited about?

BG: Kerry James Marshall is someone who to me is perhaps the best living painter today um I think his subject matter is very much of America. His experience is very different from mine but I do think he – there’s a lot in his approach to symbolism of America and how it relates to a historic tradition – one that’s perhaps not very American that I find really interesting. I think also there’s a great sort of – there’s something extremely sophisticated and intellectual in how he composes his work in the layers to it and at the same time there’s this extremely sort of , there’s this extreme sincerity and beauty that’s completely unlabored—

ES: And speaking of artists who work within the narrative tradition.

BG: Absolutely I think he’s really inspirational as someone who has married his great love for knowledge of the history of painting with something very pressing and important from his own experience.

A lot of David Salle of this—it tipped me over the edge of becoming a painter especially with these tapestry paintings he called them. Someone also did mention Cecily Brown which is funny because—

ES: I mean she’s formidable in every way.

BG: Yeah she’s one of those people where when I first saw a show of hers it really made such an impression on me but since then I’ve gone back and forth [on it]. I always go back to her earlier work which is much more directly involved in locations.

ES: Yeah and Holbein and Flemish painting—I Always finish questions with what’s your must have or favorite studio snack.

BG: Studio Snack!? Whoa! That’s a very important question—cuts to the quick. I started making polenta in my studio this past year.

ES: How?

BG: You get the instant version you boil water in the same hot plate you use for—

ES: And then you boil an egg at the same time?

BG: Nah it’s very easy—I also love the what are they called? The petite ecolie?

ES: I do love those.

BG: There’s the genuine article and then lots of knock-offs.

ES: The biscuit with the chocolate on top.

BG: Yeah the butter biscuit with the layer of chocolate and the scalloped edge.

ES: I did a summer program in France when I was a teenager, and every time we stopped off at a gas station my roommate and I would buy tons of those.

BG: They don’t last very long in my studio.

Beau Gabriel (b. 1992, New York City) graduated from Yale University with a degree in Russian literature. He left for France upon graduation, working in a law office and studying baroque oboe before turning to painting. He then moved to London in 2017, and obtained a Masters from the Royal College of Art (2019). Gabriel uses traditional approaches to formalism and materiality to explore his American upbringing, relationship to history, and authorial role as a painter. His technique and style are the result of his deep engagement with early Italian painting. By placing personal narratives at the center of historical modes of art-making, Gabriel explores ideas of place and memory in our current moment. Gabriel’s solo exhibitions include Blackberry Rondo, CARVALHO, New York (2025), Salt Marsh Hay, London (2025) and Roadside Thistles, Siena (2024), with C.G. Williams. Gabriel has participated in group exhibitions in the United Kingdom, the Netherlands, France, and China.

Emily Sussman became a contributing SPECIAL ISSUE interviewer in March of 2025. She has held positions at internationally renowned galleries including Paula Cooper Gallery, Nahmad Contemporary, and Kaufmann Repetto. Her connections with galleries and dealers ensure a strong negotiation on behalf of clients backed up by academic and market research. Additionally, Emily has worked as an independent curator and writer, with a practice based in advocating for and promoting emerging contemporary artists and she recently began the brilliant and accessible Métier on substack.

Willows, 2025
oil on panel
61 x 76 ¾ in
155 x 195 cm
All images courtesy of Beau Gabriel and CARVALHO, New York

Woman with a Thistle, 2025
oil on panel
15 ¾ x 11 ¾ in
40 x 30 cm

The Night, 2025
oil on panel
86 x 61 in
220 x 155 cm

“Three Questions”

Clare
Kambhu

September 30, 2025
Volume 2
Issue 12

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Clare Kambhu: Painting lets me slow down and alter how I see, process, and interact with everything around me. Through painting I get to examine my everyday environment with a quizzical, curious eye. The mundane things I look at all day shift from something I observe to something I’m creating, they become abstract and full of possibility and play.

So for example I might notice that the light hits my laptop screen at work in a certain way when I’m wondering when lunch time will roll around. It produces both an aesthetic experience (the pixels and reflections) and almost a communal one. I start thinking about everyone else and their internal worlds as they also wait for lunch. Then I wonder, why we organize our days in such a way that we’re counting down the minutes to lunch and how it could be different.

I’ll then paint a still life of that view of my laptop screen. Painting it gives me a sense of agency. I play with the brush strokes, building in texture to depict a surface that’s actually smooth and flat. I alter what I see and the painting becomes not so much a record of my laptop screen at work, but a record of the dance my hand and the pigments do when I pick up the brush.

I guess what I like about painting is the counterpoint it provides to other types of work.

GB: Do you feel a kinship with other painters from any point in time (past, present, and if so who (as many or as few as you like in as great or little detail as you like)? And in what way? and what does that feel like, the kinship feeling?

CK: If I’m being honest, the closest kinship I feel to any painter is to the one I’m married to - Kyle Utter. I pop my head into his studio whenever I’m feeling in need of a little pep and I get reinvigorated by his process.

My students: stepping into someone else’s shoes to look at their work inevitably makes me feel connected to them. Sometimes it feels easier to solve other peoples’ problems in the studio than my own.

Luc Tuymans: absence/presence of people communicated through mushy paint.

Josephine Halvorson & Sylvia Plimack Mangold: looking closely at the things around them (there’s so much more to say about all of these artists but I’ll leave this in list form for now).

Caroline Kent: Hard shapes and intuitive mark making.

Cy Twombly: paint as chalkboards and chalk. Totally abstract while referring to another material.

Joan Mitchell: I have a feeling that my hand moves in a similar way while applying paint (this is feeling is all in my head, but I still think it’s true based on how her marks look).

Montien Boonma: repetition of forms (alms bowls) as a place to put one’s mind.

Gary Stephan: very slight diagonals. I relate to the way his compositions come together through the process of painting down confident marks and then totally changing them.

On Kawara: time, painting as a way to experience time. Codified time vs flow.

Built environment (construction, city planning, etc.): Examining the corners of rooms, the blotches on the ground, the railings next to stairs - this is what makes me want to paint, just as much as looking at the work of other artists.

GB: How do you see yourself shaping these varied influences—personal, artistic, and environmental—into what comes next?

CK: I remember writing about the idea of time in the artist statement I used to apply to MFA programs 10 years ago. I was thinking about painting as a way to experience time passing. I had forgotten about it until now! Your question brought On Kawara back to mind and sparked the memory of writing about time. I had a more experiential relationship to painting before studying it so intensively. Somehow the compressed time of an MFA program made me forget the relationship that I had with painting and its sense of time that brought me there in the first place. I've now mostly recovered that relationship and sensation. I recently started focusing more on capturing light as it falls across institutional spaces at different times of day. Light depicted in the paintings evokes a moment in time while visible accumulation of paint on the surface of the pieces is a physical record of the time spent applying it. I’d like to focus more on the light cast by the sun in institutional rooms competing with the light emitted by screens.

Clare Kambhu is an artist and educator based in Queens, New York. In her painting practice, the attention she dedicates to commonplace surroundings of daily life leads to questions about the construction of our culture. Her current work focuses on the project of schooling and the ways in which our idiosyncratic humanness can break through within the constraints of educational institutions. She taught in New York City public schools for 9 years. Clare received her MFA in painting from Yale School of Art. She holds a BFA in studio art and an MA in art education from New York University. She participated in the Art & Law Program, Bronx Museum AIM fellowship, and apexart travel fellowship. Her work has been shown at the Katonah Museum and the Bronx Museum. Clare is an assistant professor of art at Allegheny College.

Dry Erase no 2 (will we learn), 2025, 20 x 20 inches, oil on panel

Schedule, 2025, 24 x 36 inches, oil on panel

material lettuce association, 2025, 11 x 14 inches, oil on panel

“Three Questions”

Aviv
Benn

September 17, 2025
Volume 2
Issue 11

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Aviv Benn: My first intuitive reaction to the question was "I don't like painting!" haha. It is hard to describe my relationship with painting. I suppose it is the love of my life and the bane of my existence. As a viewer what I like about painting is the immediacy of seeing a great painting across the room and getting hypnotized by it, the allure of it; the attractiveness of the surface, being surprised by a fresh and even odd painterly resolution. Nothing is better than seeing a really great and bizarre painting. As a painter, for me, it is somewhat a compulsive relationship with the medium. It is very hard for me to achieve a serene energy in the studio when it comes to the act of painting. I am rarely pleased, and I get very obsessed and endlessly try to push things forward and I rework old paintings, sometimes more than once. It is a sisyphean battle up the mountain; finding your place in the history of painting, being better than the last day and making work that I would find compelling and exciting.

GB: When you describe painting as both a love affair and a Sisyphean struggle, do you think the friction — that relentless reworking and restlessness — is what keeps the work alive, or is there a point where the pursuit of resolution risks dulling the strangeness that first drew you in?

AB: That's the age-old question, no? What's more exciting; the immediacy of love at first sight, that strike of lightning of attraction, or working daily on your relationship and enjoying the depth and resilience of something you spent time building? I think you can look at someone and remember that moment that made you smitten even after years of working on that love together, and that time spent that wasn't always sexy and new and exciting, but the growth and hardship at times is what makes things feel alive. That's how I feel about painting; I think after decades of work, something comes together and through the relentless chiseling, this lightness and this flow and energy appears. I remember seeing the Mark Rothko retrospective at the Louis Vuitton Foundation, and you can see throughout his trajectory how he is carving away through style and expression, until he finds this succinct and gorgeous place, and when we think of a Rothko that's what we think of, not the years of searching and tedious efforts, but this pure thing that was always at the middle of it. I felt the same way when I saw the Philip Guston retrospective at the Tate Modern, and I could probably name 30 more artists who made this journey and found the answer after years of perhaps sometimes not sexy or exciting, but honest and steadfast attempts. So I don't feel the relentlessness is in contrast to what drew me in; it is the love affair that makes the daily work worthwhile, and it's the never-ending pursuit that keeps what drew me in alive.

GB: When you look back at a painting after some time has passed, do you still feel that first spark that drew you to make it, or does the connection change as you grow alongside the work?

AB: That’s such a great question, and one I think about almost every day in the studio. One of the biggest tensions in my process is knowing when my relentless search is productive — when being hard on myself is actually helping me build toward something — and when it’s tipping into being destructive, when I might end up destroying a painting that did nothing wrong. When I look back at older work, I can definitely be too harsh on it. Lately, though, I’ve been making a point to notice and appreciate the moments that sparked the work in the first place. Sometimes I’ll bring those moments forward into a future body of work, or simply appreciate them for what they were at the time. Even when I rework a painting from a year ago, I try to remind myself which parts are the building blocks — the scaffolding — that can support the next stage of the painting or even a whole series. I think what I’m trying to learn over time is to let the work be itself, leave it alone, and let it do its thing. The connection definitely changes as I grow — sometimes I’ll really dislike something I did a few years ago — but then I have to ask myself why. Is it just impatience and unease, or is there a way to make the work more complex and unpredictable in a constructive way? So the question is never fully answered — it just keeps shifting, the same way the work does.

Aviv Benn is a London-based artist.

She completed her MFA in Painting and Drawing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2018, and her BFA at the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design, Jerusalem in 2013.

Benn exhibited her work in solo and group exhibitions and art fairs in the US, Europe and Tel-Aviv, such as Pi Artworks (London), Rhona Hoffman (Chicago), SECRIST | BEACH (Chicago) Untitled Art Fair (Miami), Future Fair (New-York) and more. She participated in artist residencies including Affect in Berlin (2014), Pilotenkueche, Spinnerei, Leipzig (2015), the Vermont Studio Center (2019), PADA Studios, Portugal (2023), and East London Printmakers Artist Residency (2025).

She received the Pollock Krasner Foundation Grant in 2021, Rabinovich Foundation Grant in 2015 and 2019, and the Graduate Dean Professional Development Award from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2017 and 2018.

Dead Melodies, 2025
Oil on canvas, 86x86 cm 34x34 inches

Nighttime Vase, 2025
Oil on canvas, 86x86 cm, 34x34 inches

The Fish And I Will Chat, 2025
Oil on canvas, 96x110 cm, 38x44 inches

“Three Questions”

Claudia
Keep

September 10, 2025
Volume 2
Issue 10

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Claudia Keep: I like what painting can achieve and the way painting feels. The formal confines of paint and two dimensional surface give way to near limitlessness of expression. Painting allows me to render visually what I experience; it is a way of both communicating and understanding the world around me, which for as long as I can remember has always been most easily stood (endured perhaps) through images and looking. I like the physical nature of painting; the way a painting becomes an object to be looked at, and the bodily experience of creating it. I like the materiality of paint— it’s consistency, mixing colors, the way it feels to hold a brush full of paint and drag it across the surface of a panel. Standing apart from drawing, printmaking, sculpture, dance, writing, and all other artistic mediums I have tried, paint feels the most natural and, for reasons on some level that I don’t altogether understand, the most compelling.

GB: In your paintings, where ordinary moments become luminous and intimate, how does pausing to capture these fleeting scenes shape your creative process and the emotional tone of your work?

CK: The “pause” to take a picture of a scene informs my process and the tone of my work because it is a sensational experience, by which I mean It is a moment that had a temperature, a sound, a smell, and a physical orientation to me. All of these reference points not only furnish me with practical information about color, shape, etc. that help me later, in the studio, to compose and paint a picture, but that also are imbued with connotations and psychic weight that exist in the collective consciousness. Often the work I make is inspired by some sort of repeated experience and I think the familiarity is part of what lends it an emotional tone. For example, I have seen the sun shinning through the leaves of a tree my whole seeing life, and so has almost everyone else, so when it comes to painting it, I not only have the moment that I took my reference photo but I also have a lifetime of felt experience of that particular visual phenomena or, perhaps more accurately, visual banality upon which to draw.

GB: Do you think the act of pausing to notice a moment transforms it—turning the ordinary into something inherently reflective?

CK: Not quite, I don’t think the “ordinary” is inherently reflective but I do think that pausing to look at something, or to take a picture of something, can be not only a reactive action but a reflective one. Noticing and recording something can transform an otherwise unremarkable moment into one that has personal meaning, but I think that meaning is often projected and is not inherent.

Claudia Keep’s “New York” is on view at March Gallery from
September 4 -October 18, 2025

September 16th, 1:44pm, Bug Collection, 2024, 10”x12”

studio shot

Late Morning, Red and White Striped Sheets, 2024, 10”x12”

“Three Questions”

Sydney
Guzman

September 1, 2025
Volume 2
Issue 9

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Sydney Guzman: Growing up, I hadn’t seen many paintings in person — most of what I knew came from images online or in books. But even in reproduction, I fell in love with them: their color, their texture, the way they carried so much presence. When I finally saw paintings in real life, my eyes were in awe. They felt so alive and still at the same time — they exist in a mystical, imaginary world of their own.

When I started painting in school, I felt like a magician — paint was my magic, and I guess so was my hand. I discovered that painting could hold things I struggled to express in other mediums. It’s physical and intuitive.

Painting makes me feel so many things while I’m making. Sometimes I feel completely free and open; other times I’m closed off, hiding in the work. I think painting has a way of revealing things about an artist — it becomes a kind of mirror or exchange. It helps me understand parts of myself I don’t always want to admit or that I haven’t fully seen yet. It’s a friend that’s honest and blunt — which I appreciate most.

GB: You describe painting as both a mirror and a kind of friend — honest, blunt, even mystical. Has painting ever revealed something about yourself that surprised or unsettled you? And if so, did that change the way you approached your work afterward?

SG: Yes, definitely. I wouldn’t say it’s unsettling, but when I first realized some of these things, I was surprised that a painting could hold and reveal so much about me.
Painting has shown me that I’m kind of an organized mess — and that shows up in both my studio and the work itself. Some of my paintings that feel stiff or overworked are often the ones where I know I was trying too hard. They’re still my hand, my ideas, but they lack a certain honesty. I can tell in the brushwork when I’ve been too caught up in how something is supposed to turn out, instead of letting the process lead me.

When I find myself in that kind of funk, I have a song I return to — September Fields by Frazey Ford. There’s a line in it: “All you have to do is wonder” and “Are you holding on so tight?” — and somehow, it gives me permission to let my guard down.

Other times, the paintings reveal emotional truths that aren’t always visible in the imagery. I grew up in an emotionally unstable home. I love my mom — she’s been really supportive of my art career and has always shown up for me in her own ways — but navigating the impact of her alcoholism while growing up has been difficult. I think that’s where a lot of my desire for escape or distance comes from. There’s often a sense of searching in my work, of wanting to be somewhere else, guided by animals and insects as spiritual beings — while also holding a longing to feel whole or held together.

Over time, that realization has shifted how I approach painting. I try to be more intuitive and to let go more. That’s still hard for me — some days it’s easier than others. If something isn’t working, I’ll wipe it away, start over, or paint over an old painting. I’m learning, still, to embrace the mess instead of hiding it. I don’t want to be an artist who hides from their inner truths — and even when something does hide in one painting, it always finds a way to come out in another.

GB: Several of your works—A Moth Landed in My Lap and I Held On Tightly, The Moth that Wept with Me, Saving the Insects, and We Watched the Birds and they Watched us Back—evoke a vivid connection between humans and delicate creatures. What draws you to depict moments of empathy or mutual observation between us and other species, and how does that dynamic reflect your personal journey or artistic philosophy?

SG: I’ve always been drawn to animals and insects, even since I was a child—I actually thought I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was little. Many of the encounters in my paintings are inspired by real-life interactions I’ve had, filtered through whatever emotions I’m navigating at the time. I sometimes feel like the universe sends an animal my way with a message—maybe as reassurance that I’m on the right path, or as a small gesture of symbolism and guidance. Whenever that happens, I’ll often look up the meaning behind the creature to see what it might be offering me.
In my recent insect paintings, I was responding both to my personal life and to the weather around me, as well as my curiosity about what happens to insects when it’s pouring. Maybe I could save them, or maybe they could save me—by keeping me company. It’s usually sunny in Texas, but during that time there were storms and heavy rains, which mirrored a kind of gloom I was processing, along with the presence of all the bugs that gathered near my balcony at night. That feeling led to works like A Moth Landed in My Lap and I Held on Tightly, The Moth that Wept with Me, and Saving the Insects. My painting We Watched the Birds and They Watched Us Back grew out of seeing birds pacing around outside my apartment building, paired with the influence of Philip Guston’s Couple in Bed painting. There’s something funny and beautiful about those moments—when you lock eyes with a bird and realize you’re both watching each other.

These interactions, whether humorous or symbolic, keep me paying attention. They remind me not to miss the small signs of connection around me, and that sense of empathy and awareness is something I carry into my artistic practice.

Sydney Guzman (b.1997, McAllen, TX) earned her Master of Fine Arts degree from the LeRoy E. Hoffberger School of Painting at the Maryland Institute College of Art in the spring of 2023, following her Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Texas State University in 2021.

Currently based in Austin, Guzman is a lecturer in the School of Art and Design at Texas State University in San Marcos, TX. Her practice centers on immersive, layered works that explore personal growth, the cycles of nature, and the complexities of self-discovery. Her work has been exhibited nationally at museums and galleries including The Peale Museum (Baltimore, MD), Spellerberg Projects (Lockhart, TX), 82Paris (Portland, ME), and Ivester Contemporary (Austin, TX), among others.

We Moved With the Sun, oil on canvas, 2024, 50 x 56 inches

The Moth that Wept With Me, oil on canvas, 2025, 40 x 34 inches

Company, oil on panel, 2023, 54 x 50 inche

“Three Questions”

Kyle
Utter

August 26, 2025
Volume 2
Issue 8

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Kyle Utter: For me painting is a sort of elevated play. I like that painting is totally void of usefulness in any colloquial sense of the word. Unless you consider providing aesthetic enhancement or building niche communities use values, it has none. In a world where everything is instrumentalized this frivolity seems like a value to me. And at the same time we (painters) are very serious about this type of play we call painting. We spend huge amounts of time figuring out how to apply materials just so, reading art history or art theory, looking at other paintings, formulating thoughts and having conversations about other paintings. In so far as it ultimately doesn’t matter despite commanding a huge portion of my mental bandwidth, painting for me is like sports might be for other people. But the fact that painting is a solitary activity in which one competes primarily against themself makes it commensurate with my temperament.
In the studio I’m building worlds, playing with flatness and depth through a free associative process that allows me to think through materials and images. This process continues to excite me.

GB: You mention reading art history and theory as evidence of the seriousness of play in painting, which I agree with. As a new member of a shared reading group currently engaging with a Marxist text, I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts on how politics—or the reading and contemplation of political texts—might shape or relate to the serious play involved in your painting.

KU: Yea, over the last year and change I have been engaging seriously with texts by Marx, Althusser, Frederic Jameson, Anna Kornbluh and Ben Davis among others in reading groups and on my own.

The Marxist tradition provides an immense body of literature that contains a ton of important insights and a lot of great writing, but at the end of the day, I am not aiming to make Marxist paintings. Psychoanalytic insights are important to me and, as such, intentionality in the moment of making becomes suspect. It’s like in the moment of making a painting I’m too close to it to be able to realize what I’m actually involved in. In terms of understanding my own work there is a sort of belated comprehension that takes place well after I’ve finished a painting. Only once some time has passed can I look at the completed painting in the proverbial rear view mirror and see how the things I was concerned with/ thinking about/ reading at the time manifested in the painting.

I’m now looking back at my Pastoral No. 2 which I completed late last year. Unrelated imagery, different mediums and various styles of painting are accumulated on a single surface- it’s a visual cacophony that does seem to reflect the experience of being embedded in the frenetic circuits of production, consumption and distribution living in New York City, the capital of capital. And of course there is the depiction of workers, appropriated from a FedEx advertisement which valorizes them in a very superficial and cynical way. All of this is an aesthetic affirmation of contradictions and incongruences. It is an affirmation of what is. A representation of what is. I don’t see it as part of a revolutionary program. I don’t think humanity is going to become more free or our political economy will be more fair because I make paintings in my studio a certain way.

GB: How does that delayed recognition shape the way you approach making the next piece? Do you ever try to resist or lean into that uncertainty while working?

KU: If I recognize some sort of content or formal pattern in a painting after the fact I may lean into it or push away from it in the next painting. As I develop a body of work I hope that there are connections between the paintings, but I don’t want it to be variations on a theme.

Even within the course of making a single painting if I see a narrative emerging I’ll often disrupt it by painting over or adding something. I don’t want obvious narratives. I want the viewing process to be a slow one where the viewer is invited to put together disparate pieces and draw their own connections. I want the viewer to be able to enter the pictorial space, collect clues in the form of image fragments and then be pushed back out onto the surface of the painting by its sheer materiality.

In terms of uncertainty in the process, I do embrace it, but also set up rules and structures for myself. In the works featured here I started off with images of architecture in my neighborhood. I used rules of perspective to reconfigure these images. These are the certainties that I started with. After that I allowed myself to intervene so as to create an interesting painting. In Pastoral No. 2 the purple brush strokes on the right really do violence to the representational space, they are completely non-objective, and as such they present a big risk. There were no studies to see how the strokes would look- it was uncertain but I just went for it, right on the surface. I put some purple paint on a 4 inch brush and took a leap of faith. I think it worked out.

Pastoral; Acrylic and Oil Paint on Panel; 24x20 inches; 2023

Pastoral No. 2; Acrylic and Oil Paint on Canvas; 38x48 inches; 2024

73rd btwn 30th & 31st; Oil Paint and Shellac on Canvas; 38x28 inches; 2022

“Three Questions”

Emily
Stroud

August 19, 2025
Volume 2
Issue 7

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Emily Stroud: I like that painting is never-ending. I can potentially/hopefully spend my entire life painting and continue to uncover new problems both materially and conceptually. Every day in the studio, there are interesting moments where the paint acts differently than I expect it to, and I always find those new material experiences so exciting. When I tell people that I paint, a lot of the time they say that it must be so fun or therapeutic, but I actually find painting quite grueling a lot of the time. But eventually, there’s a moment in painting where everything clicks into place, and it’s like I’ve been holding my breath and I can finally exhale. I’m always searching for that feeling with painting, and sometimes it happens in the first five hours, and sometimes it happens after 50 hours into a piece. I also feel like a pretty solitary person, and I like painting because it allows me to be physically alone, but always a part of a bigger community and history. I’m never actually painting alone. I have so many paintings I am enamoured with flashing through my mind and conversations with other artists, interviews, articles, etc, ruminating up there while I’m working. I also love not only the act of painting, but looking at paintings, good and bad. I love an art opening and then the dissection of what my friends and I loved and hated over a drink afterwards. That’s also helpful for being solitary because my overwhelming curiosity in seeing other artists' work pulls me out into the world.

GB: Painting seems to be both a private obsession and a way of staying connected to the world. What keeps you going on the hard days when the “click” doesn’t come—or when solitude feels more like isolation?

ES: I think the nature of my studio keeps me from feeling isolated. My studio is located in an old high school that’s been repurposed into spaces for artists and businesses. There are always people to run into, other artists to talk to, and a coffee shop where I can go and do some work if I'm feeling cooped up. I also have a studiomate, so I’m rarely alone in my space. I actually feel most isolated in my practice based on my practice itself, not from being physically alone. That feeling comes when I’ve exhausted all of my ideas and I reach a point where I have to start from what feels like the very beginning again.

I used to work on just a few paintings at a time, and when I would finish them, I would feel defeated. The build-up to painting again would feel incredibly taxing, and then I would end up in my head about where to start. I have altered my practice to kind of work like a one man factory, where there are lots of paintings going at once, drawings for prospective paintings, and other prep to do (like building, stretching, preparing canvases, etc.). When I start to feel stuck in a painting, I can just turn it around for a while and move to another part of the studio and fend off that exhausted feeling.

The “click” or everything shifting into place for a painting definitely doesn’t happen every day or for every painting, but I guess I’m always searching for it. I also just really enjoy the physical aspect of painting. I love moving everything around, turning my paintings upside down to edit them or see them from a different viewpoint, stretching canvases, all of it. So being able to bounce around the studio and work on different stages of the process of a painting at any time has kept that feeling at bay.

GB: Do you think your studio has a memory of all the paintings that have passed through it—and if so, do you ever feel them influencing the new ones?

ES: I’m not sure how much the actual paintings that have lived in this space before I arrived influence my work. The floor above my studio houses an art school that teaches realist techniques in painting and drawing, and many of its graduates have studios on my floor. I’m surrounded by their paintings, which I find technically so beautiful, but that kind of work can be a trap for me. I tend to get caught up in what looks “right” and “wrong,” and that is not helpful for my practice. I am more interested in the natural flow of my hand and in creating a space that can only exist in a painting. I’m always aiming to make a painting that makes logical sense on the picture plane, but doesn’t make realistic sense? If that makes… sense.

However, my own finished paintings are always lingering, with pieces of them resurfacing in my new work for better or worse. The imprints of other artists’ paintings are also present in the studio. I often keep multiple books open while I work. I have artists' paintings printed and hung up on my wall, and they’re always swirling around in my mind too. I have Manet, Lois Dodd, Bonnard, Clara Peeters, the list goes on forever, all keeping me company while I work.

In progress shot of a painting.
(all images courtesy of the artist)

Swimming, dye, flashe, acrylic and oil on canvas, 14 x 12 inches, 2025

Cabinet, dye, flashe and oil on canvas, 29 x 21 inches, 2025

“Three Questions”

Rodrigo
Tafur

August 13, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 6

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Rodrigo Tafur: I wonder about that myself. I have moments when I can’t quite say I like it. I believe most painters have a unique relationship with obsession—it’s like asking an addict what they love about their addiction. It goes deeper than liking. It’s not just a loving relationship.
But at the same time, painting is not really an addiction… it can just be pigment over a surface… I wonder if there are any simple obsessions… painting would be one for me.
It´s feeling happy and sad at the same time. I don’t just like it for the pleasure of its materiality, or for the magical atmosphere that only exists within the studio walls, or the softness of new brushes, or the personality of the worn ones, or the smell of oil paint, coffee, and cigarettes, or getting lost in color and thought, or the playfulness of starting a new canvas, and all of it wondering why I’m doing it at all. Painting can turn to be a heavy existential matter for me, if I think about it too much…
I like to see Painting as an agent of introspection. In this age of immediacy, they slow us down and ask us to feel. That might sound banal or insignificant, “just feeling”—and maybe it is, in the way that human existence itself can seem to be. And yet, that’s the point. A painting is like a intricate fingerprint. It says, “I was here.” It speaks of time, presence, and death.
Sometimes I love painting. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I don’t care about it at all. The more I try to answer this question, the more I realize I could just as easily be talking about myself. And maybe that’s not an entirely separate question at all.
If I had to give a final answer, I’d say what I love most about painting is the paint itself—to see how it behaves, how it’s handled by different hands. It’s such a malleable material, endlessly appealing to the senses.
I wonder about it... endlessly. The closest I can get to is that Painting is a complex relationship with a simple obsession.

GB: Could you say more about what you meant by “the playfulness of starting a new canvas”?

RT: When I talk about the playfulness of starting a new canvas, I’m referring to the freedom and spontaneity that comes at the very beginning of the process. At that stage, there’s no pressure—just the simple responsibility of responding to the emptiness of the surface. It feels almost like playing, where I can be completely impulsive. There are no 'mistakes' yet, only gestures, color, and motion... Intuition. As the painting develops, though, that sense of play starts to shift. I begin to make more intentional decisions—thinking more about color relationships, form, and composition. I start to wonder what the painting is becoming, what it might look like in the end. But interestingly, it never turns out the way I expect.

GB: Do you think the canvas ever ‘wants’ something from you in those early moments—or is the playfulness more about resisting that kind of demand? Have you ever considered leaving a painting at that playful, impulsive beginning stage—never resolving it—almost like preserving a fossil of your first response to emptiness?

RT: I believe the canvas is always demanding something—it insists on being acted upon. As a painter, I’ve come to understand that I inhabit a space I often think of as the In-Between—a realm where things are not fully defined, and even when they appear to be, they rarely behave as expected.

In those early stages, when I'm merely preparing the surface—not yet a painting—I’m focused on creating the right ground for what is to come. This stage is deeply sensorial for me: there’s touching, grasping, rubbing—a direct, physical engagement between my body and the surface. It’s during this process that I often slip into a kind of working trance. Its relevante to state that this playful stage is not without tension; it’s a continual push and pull, a cycle of surrendering and resisting.

I have often considered leaving a work at that raw, intuitive stage—preserving it as a kind of fossil of the first response to emptiness; as the question states. In fact, this temptation is present at every step. I constantly ask myself: Is it done? Does it need anything more? Is this enough? And yet, it almost never feels complete. Since its at everystep of the way... I really don´t mind to keep working, its makes me feel better (if that makes sense).

My current process, which involves a pointillist approach to color and texture, helps to relieve the pressure of achieving resolution in a conventional sense. I think of it as a factorization—breaking down color and brushstroke into countless parts, each contributing to a unified whole. This allows me to engage in a complex dialogue: between myself, the act of painting, and the image that is slowly emerging—eventually to be offered to the viewer, whoever they may be.

Ultimately, I feel that painters are, in a way, "doomed" or "cursed"—not just to persist in painting despite all obstacles, but to paint one singular painting again and again, across time and canvas. I’ve been painting that same image since I was a child. It’s the same vital energy that pushes me forward—the same inner light that illuminates different ideas, forms, and materials. In truth, it is all part of one vast surface, containing every experience and thought—even those I cannot yet recognize. A kind of alchemical index that will only come to rest when my body itself stops moving.

Cavern, 2024
Oil, graphite and burlap on canvas
68 x 65 inches

Painting detail

Installation photo from “Babel, Silence and Noise” at Ginsberg &T zu Gallery, Lima, Peru. (2025)

“Guest Interview”

Sue
Beyer
Interviews
Brandon
Dalmer

July 22, 2025

Volume 2
Special Issue

Sue Beyer: Tell us a bit about yourself.

Brandon Dalmer: I’m originally from Alberta, Canada, but I am now based in Montréal, QC. I completed my undergrad in 2007 at AUarts in Painting.

Since then, I’ve participated in residencies and exhibitions across Canada and internationally and have been active in artist-run organizations and curatorial projects, the most recent with Roundtable Residency (Toronto) and Wreck City (Calgary).

I recently completed an MFA in Painting and Drawing at Concordia University. My practice investigates how images are generated and our shifting relationship with technology. I use a lot of fabrication, generative processes and robotic assistance to explore the hidden systems that shape our daily lives. This also functions as a kind of archive. My work is open source, allowing others to expand upon it, granting a form of technological undeath.

Lately, I’ve been into magic, astronomy, and bad ’80s movies.

SB: How long have you been making art?

BD: I’ve been making art for quite a while, but 2015 marked a turning point when I returned to painting full time and began integrating coding and automation into my practice.

Since then, my work has shifted between experimental video, animation, and installation, but painting has always been the core. I see painting as the original human technology, or an adaptable medium for exploring emerging tools and systems.

SB: Do you have a studio space?

BD: Yes, I co-run a large studio space in the Mile End with 28 other artists working across various mediums. We started it together in 2020 during the pandemic, and it’s since grown to 6000 square feet. The community we’ve built is a key part of my practice, offering us all stability in Montréal’s challenging rental landscape. It also helps to foster collaboration between the artists.

SB: What transformative processes do you use to make your work?

BD: My work is entirely transformative. I use systems that convert digital information into new forms. Whether through painting, video, or installation. I’m especially interested in how codecs function, translating one type of data into another. I see artists working similarly: filtering information and lived experience into new forms and images.

SB: Do you ever use instruction?

BD: Research is a form of instruction. Open-source platforms like GitHub, Instructables, and Hack-a-Day really inform my practice. These platforms will often be a jumping off point for new methods. Recently, I started developing a series of ghost-detecting sensors based on a DIY ghost-hunting forum I discovered. I am constantly researching and experimenting, especially in the more automated areas of my practice.

Because I’ve benefited so much from these resources, I now share my own research through Gitbooks, where I host 3D files and tutorials. You can access these at: brandon-a-dalmer.gitbook.io/studio-notes

SB: In your work Congratulations from 2021 you are exploring affect mediated by artificial/synthetic aesthetics. How do you think your work produces or encourages affect for the viewer?

BD: This piece was made while I was a Teaching Assistant for an Intro Painting class during my MFA. I’ve always been interested in how artists replicate images, especially the use of projectors and printouts to translate digital images into physical paintings. I noticed that many students left in projection-related distortions, focus shifts and warped proportions, which immediately reminded me of David Hockney’s Secret Knowledge, where he suggests Old Masters may have used optical tools. These distortions, once accidental, now feel natural and a part of a new visual language shaped by technology.

As artificial aesthetics become more normalized, they also become less visible. The line between the real and the artificial blurs, and for many, that distinction no longer matters. I see this as a critical entry point: it’s how we begin to interact with technology visually. Once this layer is defined, we can start digging deeper and exploring the true deep magic.

SB: Can you talk a bit about Sample Return (Martian Regolith), 2025

BD: This piece started as an exploration of synthetic pigments, which is something I’m still working on. I discovered a whole world of synthetic extraterrestrial simulats: lab-made materials replicating the chemical makeup of lunar, asteroid, or Martian soil. These are based on data collected by various rovers and missions. Actual Martian soil is incredibly hard (and expensive) to bring back, although NASA has been working on this with each successive mission. Sample Return (Martian Regolith) uses a simulant that’s 98% chemically similar to real Martian soil.

This work is a bit of a gag, poking fun at the tech-bro culture dominating (and hopefully not preventing) space exploration in recent years. I’m fascinated by the potential of returning to the moon and beyond, but also wary. It sometimes feels like we're headed toward the worst possible version of Burning Man...

SB: When is your next exhibition?

BD: I will be part of a 3-person show with Colin Canary and Andrew Wright in 2026 at De Montigny in Ottawa. I’m pretty excited about this as we’ve been given a lot of room to experiment. The show will act both as a physical bibliography and the launch of a publication I’ve been writing over the last year.

Congratulations, 2021
Acrylic on Panel
36x24 inches

BEND-12023_745.svg, 2024
Acrylic on Canvas
60x54 inches

PGF, 2025
Acrylic on Panel
28 X 24 inches

“Three(ish) Questions”

Henning
Strassburger

July 15, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 5

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Henning Strassburger: I am never sure if I actually like painting or not. It often feels so dull and overcome. There is all this good painting out there, but also all the bad. I was just in the Louvre in Paris. Endless walls and walls filled with paintings. From floor to ceiling. Really crappy ones, too. And just when I started hating it all, the master pieces popped out. Like literally popping out of the white noise of painting. And the question would be, why is the Fra Angelico so much better than those medieval paintings hanging next to his? Why is Ingres' portrait of Napoleon better than the ones by other painters? Why are the figures in this one Delacroix painting so perfectly painted and in the other one from the same year completely off? Well I guess that's the answer to my question: it’s because painting is a drug. One might hate it, but you can't get away from it.

GB: A clarification and a half-question—when you say "painting is a drug" do you mean painting is addictive or that painting has psychotropic powers, has healing qualities, or something else entirely?

HS: Well I guess that's all part of a drug. The addiction, the high, the down, the illusion, the psycho trip, the overdose, the medical dose... It also depends on whether you're the maker or the viewer, the dealer or consumer. Weird to use all these terms now to describe painting as such. I am speaking as an addict in both ways, maker and viewer.

GB: Could you fantasize about the greatest painting never made and describe it to us?

HS: The greatest painting? Let me see… I guess first of all it brings a personal story, which only a unique person at a unique time could bring. Then it has a material attraction, the unexplainable "how is it made"? Even when there are sloppy brushstrokes, which make you wonder how someone could possibly paint so precise in such an easy manner. And most important to me is, that the greatest painting encloses some secret, which can never be solved.

I just try to think about how that painting would look, taking these things as cooking ingredients. It has to have a shooting hole like Warhols shot Marilyn, it has to have sloppy brushstrokes like in a Rembrandt self-portrait with the golden helmet, and it most certainly needs a Mona Lisa smile, which cannot really be seen; or one eye, like the Nefertiti sculpture and one will ever wonder: where is the other eye?

GB: This is an exciting way to think about making a painting! Can you talk about what you're working on and how you're making it and what you think and feel about it? What're your Warhol holes, sloppy Rembrandt strokes, Mona Lisa smiles, and missing Nefertiti eye?

HS: Oh boy I really maneuvered me into something here! The good thing about my list is probably, that you can never achieve this intentionally. Everything that makes a masterpiece is unpredictable, unlead, unforced, maybe also unconscious. I mean all talent, virtuosity, experience and stuff is no guarantee to ever paint a single good painting. It needs this holy touch, wherever it comes from.

I myself am in a real artistic transformation, which sounds tough, but is actually a lot of fun to endure this process. It is a long missed way out. With all what‘s going on in this world it really struck me earlier this year, that my own practice as an abstract painter came to an end. I was simply done with it. I said what I had to say. And I actually don‘t see that my abstract piers have something interesting to say anymore either. Things I highly valued yesterday are completely off my focus today and seem absolutely empty to me.

So one morning I woke up like in a Kafka book and wasn’t a bug, but certainly no abstract painter any more. I decided, that I am a realist now. I started drawing and painting the people around me. And I paint them from life. Not from photos, not from my phone. Just reality. No irony. No concept. No additional content. With all the alternative facts around me I document who is sitting in front of me and whom I know. Face to face. Painting is the only medium I trust today. How funny.

Eau de Bro, 2020
250 x 200 cm
Oil on Canvas

Andy Hope 1930, 2022
Oil on Canvas
60x50cm
Photo: Roman Maerz

The Happy Painter, 2024
Oil on Camvas
180 x 140 cm
Photo: Tino Kukulies

“Three Questions”

Sarah
D’Ambrosio

June 30, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 4

Gideon’s Bakery: What do you like about painting?

Sarah D’Ambrosio: I love how problem solving occurs in painting. I love tackling why paintings do work and why they don’t. I love being part of something that has been a human activity for thousands of years and indulging in something we absolutely do not need to survive (in the life/death literal sense). I love the mysterious poetry and language of formal painting. Oil paints fleshy ,sexy like material and trying to intuitively make work that seems tethered and sincere to me as a person.

GB: The figures in your show Brooklyn, Berlin at March in the East Village have an unusual relationship other the edges of the canvas, to filling up the space of the pictures, unusual in that it feels unique to you, a new take on this kind of imagery, and deeply connected to painters like Marsden Hartley, Neo-classical Picasso, and especially Bay Area painter David Park. Does the oil paint itself aid in determining a composition? How do you decide where the body is in space, in relation to other bodies? Could you guide us through one of the problems that needed solving, maybe in a specific painting in the show? While oil paint itself may be fleshy/sexy as you say, in these paintings I think it does something different though I don't know what that something is yet. It offers a kind of solidity, a wax figure, a vulnerable moment captured in wax but still very much alive.

SD’A: SD’A: The figures expand over time. Their parts are sometimes Frankensteined together from multiple memories of different male bodies. Haptic memory or invented fantasy. I prefer my boys large and in charge—gravity, form and weight are very important to me. They don’t always start so big but they get bigger and bigger every time I trace the memory of an edge of chest or leg over again in my mind. Sometimes they really suffocate the canvas and then I have to release a pressure valve somewhere—I do feel deeply connected to Hartley, Avery, Beckmann and definitely Park. Park being the stand out only that I always felt David Park was so gutturally responsive in a way that other Bay Area painters weren’t. That’s how I paint, from the gut, and try and shoot straight from the hip. I used to paint with just my eyes and head— intense observation. I still draw from observation but now I work primarily from my central nervous system, which is how I experience human beings anyway. There’s an energy to them I’m trying to capture or remember. So it seems fitting and more important, truthful. As far as problem solving, the paintings change so much throughout the process. At the end of the day the painting itself is the priority. I am a formalist. Shape and form are the gears that keep the machine spinning. If limbs and environments have to change or a head has to be completely lobbed off to suit the needs of the life of the painting. Then so be it. There’s nothing worse or more useless than a stagnant painting. You can’t fall in love with small moments and sacrifice the whole.

GB: What is your dream response to your work?

SD’A:Oh, that’s tough I think about this quote often: "I am Me, and I hope to become Me more and more," wrote Paula Modersohn-Becker in a letter to her close friend Rainer Maria Rilke, following her split from her husband Otto Modersohn.

I just want the work to feel like it comes from me. Connected to other painters and filtered through all of my experiences and understanding of paint but me nonetheless.

Sarah D’Ambrosio’s solo show “Brooklyn, Berlin” at March is up through July 25th.

A studio shot from a few months ago.

Left: A Boy from Munich, oil on canvas, 60 x 48 inches , 2025 (not on view)

Right: Bathhouse Beefcake , oil on canvas, 60x 48 inches , 2025 (currently up at MARCH gallery)

Limerance, 2025
Oil on canvas
12x9 inches

Bathhouse Beefcake, 2025
Oil on canvas
60x48 inches

“Three Questions”

Katie
Hector

June 25, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 3

Gideon’s Bakery: what do you like about painting?

Katie Hector: I'm addicted to the flow state I can access while painting. Where decisions feel intuitive and intentionally impulsive and when the image of what I’m working on is abstracted by the process of layering paint. I think tapping into that zone as much as possible enriches my life greatly. What happens to a work after its complete is a matter of context but I’ve always cared about the making the most.

GB: Did you play sports at a high level?

KH: I did, I was a swimmer growing up. I think it greatly influenced me in terms of discipline, endurance, commitment to consistency, and being able to generate motivation. Swimming is a funny sport because it’s a team effort culminating from solo races; head in the water, in your own lane, unable to see your opponent or hear the crowd. When I paint in the studio now all masked up in a respirator (due to the airbrush) I get a laugh thinking that I’ve trained for this since I was six.

GB: Louise Fishman visited Hunter while I was there and talked about her youthful love of basketball. Because her childhood was pre-Title 9 she couldn’t continue playing after a certain age. Her love of basketball manifested at the edges and grids of her paintings and spoke to her keen awareness of the boundaries of the court. She spoke to this for a while, the relationship of her body as a player and being in and out of bounds, how to play the edge of the court. It was fascinating to see it in the work. I had a feeling with your talk of a “flow state” you had a similar relationship to sports. Consistency is an interesting topic and it’s wild to think about your time spent swimming as training for painting. How does this thread, swimming to respirator, affect the content of the work? I’m thinking also of the act of making it, I’m not sure I have a question here maybe just a thought, that you can bear witness and participate in the making but no one else could bear witness unless they, too, masked, but of course they wouldn’t have your breath training and wouldn't be involved in making to it'd be very different.

KH: I think the sensory deprivation allows me to access a flow state in the same way being in the water used to when I was a kid. It feels like putting on blinders and being able to hyper focus for short bursts at a time. I typically paint in short yet energized 15-30 min bursts at a time. Katie Hector I think the toxic nature of my process (the need to wear a mask while painting) makes me think a lot about a dystopian future. I think it deeply impacts my choice of color, an acid hyper saturated pallette. I envision my subjects as beings from a toxic future, shellshocked.

Elena, 2025
Acrylic on canvas
40 x 30 inches

Jazmin, 2025
Acrylic on canvas
22 x 22 inches

Scout, 2025
Acrylic on canvas
40 x 30 inches

“Three Questions”

Erica
Newton

June 12, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 2

Gideon’s Bakery: what do you like about painting?

Erica Newton: I like the way it gets me to look at the world, like I'm active listening/looking. I like the space it offers me to kind of worldbuilding and dialogue with myself and my memories and fantasies. I like the mystery of it and the surprise. I like the all-at-onceness of painting, there is no order for how you are supposed to receive the information. I like what that does to our sense of time and space and order. And of course, I like the materiality of the whole endeavor.

Oh and I also like the problem solving aspect—there’s always something to be worked out.

GB: Can you say more about the materiality of the whole endeavor? How did you come about using the materials you use in the way that you use them?

EN: Well I didn't pick up oil paints until I was an art model at the New York Studio School (which is where I got my MFA). I would be sitting there for hours watching other people mix paint and imagine what it might feel like and entertain myself by thinking about how I would mix a certain color in the room. So I kind of craved them from afar before I took the plunge. I also have the studio school to thank for the plaster. The school does these intensives for two weeks between terms that they call marathons and I started taking sculpture rather than drawing ones (Marathons are also how I started out with oil painting too because they are open to everyone). I was introduced to plaster in one of these marathons and had so much fun with it. The quality of plaster when it's wet is enticing and the possibilities feel endless and then there's this big reveal moment where you don't quite know how it will turn out (at least the way I do it, hah). But I was also so immersed in painting, image, and color, so I thought I'd try making plaster slabs to paint on and it was immediately exciting and experimental. I am still getting surprised by what paint and plaster can do together so that's probably a reason I have kept with it. I also like immediately being involved in making the actual art object, which the plaster part of the process definitely is. It's sort of funny, but I don't have much patience for stretching and preparing a canvas and don't especially love the quality of the surface. I want to get right into it and I want something that talks back. Though this wasn't a conscious intention (and still isn't really, though I'm more aware of it) I guess I'll just say there's something intriguing about walking the line between a painting and a sculptural object. Something about the presence of it.

GB: How does the materiality affect the content? If it doesn’t, why do you think that is?

EN:My counter to you might be what’s the difference between materiality and content? I’m not sure I can totally figure how to draw the distinction. It’s all metaphor and it’s all itself simultaneously. Image and the senses engaged by the material get interlocked in the making. For me, there is no content without material, I think they’re inextricably linked.

My less esoteric answer is that, in terms of process, often the plaster offers something to respond to and build an image off of. Sometimes when it’s setting I start playing around or composing with something in mind but often when I get the first pass of paint on something else happens other than my original intention. So I guess what I’m saying is there’s this oscillation between what elements are directing the unfolding of the work. I don’t try to foist an idea onto a material, there’s always a dialogue.

Erica’s work is currently on display at Ruby/Dakota (155 E 2nd Street, NYC) in a two person exhibition “Stretch Marks” with Ellen Hanson through June 28th. You can learn more about Erica on her website and instagram.

Flowers at Night, 2023
oil and plaster on wood
11 x 9.5 inches
Photo: Rosie Lopeman

Erica in her Skowhegan studio.
Photo: Tyler Mathew Oyer

untitled (scrap 1), 2024
Spray paint, plaster, paint skins, oil paint, burlap
5 x 6 inches
Photo: The artist

“Three Questions”

Adrianne
Rubenstein

June 5, 2025

Volume 2
Issue 1

Gideon’s Bakery: what do you like about painting?

Adrianne Rubenstein: I like how paintings look and feel, and the depth of experience.

GB: Could you describe a painting's look and feel and depth of experience that has a special place in your mind and heart? Yours or someone else's painting, doesn't matter, or maybe both?

AR: I like to see rebellion in a painting and a contrast between assumed or accepted realities and fantastic ones, and for the space in between to be the revelation. I like paintings that take down power structures. Decisions can be a code into the raw and sometimes painful experience of the artist. I think painting and looking at painting is basically the same thing. I think super smart people like Dana Schutz are able to make paintings that tell enormous long stories of time and detail and that dumb funny painters like (Georg) Baselitz can make grand overtures about humanity with one crooked gesture.

GB: On the spectrum of "super-smart-painters to dumb-funny-painters" where do you place your work and could you talk about the stories or overtures you are making--not necessarily what the stories/overtures are literally unless that's what you'd like to do, but more what it feels like when you're about to start a painting, when you're in the middle of it, when you've decided to stop painting that painting, etc.?

AR: I think I’m on the dumber end. The paintings i make are exactly and only what i am able to make, i don’t think anyone else could do them and i don’t think anyone’s ever going to hire me to do highly skilled labor in a dot factory, but I think the extent that I love and admire painting us very very evident in my work and conduct as an artist. people always say that my work looks fun to make but actually a lot of the process us fighting and just forcing myself to do it like anything else that you’ve somehow made yourself responsible to. So, when I’m making a painting i am mostly coming up with subtle mind tricks to trick myself into doing the stuff I like looking at which needs to be not overly thought about. I think there’s an element of covering tracks and also trying to give “a lot.” When the paintings are finished, I’m not really sure, but it could be a lot of points earlier or later than they are, but the thought process might be like: I’ve gotten at the essence of something and any more would be taking it away, but I also like to be able to ruin my paintings and experience them dying so I can make sure it’s a part of my process not to create finite things.

Still life in a Jar, 2025, oil on canvas, 32 × 28”

Lo Fi, 2025, oil on canvas, 72 × 96”

Metamorphosis, 2025, oil on canvas, 32 × 28”

Vol 2. (June 2025—) Vol 1. (May 2024—March 2025) About Contributors EmailInstagram ©2026 Gideon’s Bakery

Vol 2. (June 2025—) Vol 1. (May 2024—March 2025) About Contributors EmailInstagram ©2026 Gideon’s Bakery

Gideon’s Bakery is an artist-run artist & artworld interview site.

Vol 2. (June 2025—)
Vol 1. (May 2024—March 2025)

About
Contributors
Email
Instagram

©2026 Gideon’s Bakery

Vol 2. (June 2025—)
Vol 1. (May 2024—March 2025)

About
Contributors
Email
Instagram

©2026 Gideon’s Bakery

Gideon’s
Bakery
is
an
artist-run
artist
&
artworld
interview
site.