A picture is not thought out and settled beforehand. While it is being done it changes as one's thoughts change. And when it is finished, it still goes on changing, according to the state of mind of whoever is looking at it.

Pablo Picasso
   Interview with Christian Zervos,
Cahiers d'Art

The sublime for me is your dematerialization of painting into consciousness, quite literally, like a solid can transform directly into vapor.

Electronic message
to Wess Dahlberg

Watching the paint dry, I found my thoughts drifting from images to words. I sense the actual medium of painting is neither oil nor acrylic; the true medium of painting is human consciousness. When we say the word "painting" we are really referring to a trans-dimensional object: A painting is made of canvas and paint, AND human consciousness. A painting exists first as the consciousness of the artist. It appears to us, however, as objectified thought, that is, as an object of canvas and paint.

When we view a painting, the stakes are high: We not only assimilate it into our minds, we incorporate it, adopting the painting as part of our consciousness, too. It is natural for us, as viewers, to resist this assimilation by imposing our beliefs and biases onto the painting. In the process, some paintings disappear

entirely, the viewer blinded by his projected beliefs. Other paintings utilize the cultural biases of its viewers. Others, yet, actually dispel the viewer's preconceptions; this, to me, is the high-stakes pay-off.

When we call a painting "beautiful," we are really marveling at the beauty of our own consciousness, a beauty the painting somehow reveals. This is the elixir-power of art. And, when we call a painting "great," it resonates perfectly with the intricacies of human consciousness, much like the sensation of a great chair perfectly relaxing the spine.

II

When I paint, I like to stay close to the action. I keep the artistic focus on the painting and on how it interacts with my

consciousness. These efforts, in turn, will keep are intended to keep the viewer focused on his immediate relationship with the painting. My paintings refer to the fabric of their own being, the dynamics between the liquid paint and the solid panel, the harmonies created by scale, shape and color, and the theoretical distance between intersecting brushstrokes in each painting and what viewers call "the Cartesian grid." Consequently, I take care not to suggest any realities apart from the painting itself (e.g., landscapes, portraits, emotions or social contentions), because I prefer to explore the quiet but intense intimacy of the here and now that the viewing experience offers.

During the creative process, one of my concerns is: Paint in the bucket is fluid and sensual; paint on the canvas often looks dry, hard and lifeless. To resolve this, I

realized that a painting in progress is a meeting of two disparate states of matter: The solid and the liquid, the form and the formless, the panel and the paint. Initially, this solid/liquid relationship may seem static or one-way, because the solid panel always lends form to the fluid paint. When I design a panel, I factor in the liquid nature of paint to expose the dynamics between the solid panel and the fluid paint.

Then, when I begin to paint, the perimeter of the panel suggests a brush size and a rhythm with which to move the paint. I move the paint back and forth, up and down, layer upon layer, until the paint takes on its own sense of beauty and logic, bringing to light the poetics of waves, Cartesian grids, and randomness, and how they intersect.

Again, I keep the paint free from illusory content - narratives or social commentary - because adding representational or abstract contentions to the paint would distance the paint from its natural, fluid, "in the bucket" state. Likewise, I select one color because two or more colors would create a pattern that would camouflage and veil the fluid essence of the brushstrokes.

Herein lies the fluid beauty of these paintings. If we were to consider these paintings apart from consciousness, we would say they are very physical, detailed, specific objects. Yet, paradoxically, their specificity defies precise quantification. I call this unique quality "specific yet unquantifiable." The following two examples illustrate its significance.

The painting, "Blue," is a very specific blue made of ultramarine blue, dioxazine

violet, organic orange, and some interference pigment. It is truly a one-of-a-kind color, but exactly what type or quantity of blue is it? This seems to elude us. We could measure the color blue with a light meter and assign it a numerical value, but this does not augment our understanding of the painting. What matters is that this "specific yet unquantifiable" shade of blue gives us, as viewers, the freedom to adjust the hue as we incorporate the painting into our consciousness. The fact that we adjust the hue, toward a greenish blue or violet blue, really doesn't change the essence of the painting.

Another example is how we visualize the individual grid regions. We are prone to assume that a pair of same-size regions are similar in detail. This is true to an extent, yet each grid region varies in

detail because the build-up of paint is unique in each case. Exactly how similar and how different is a pair of same-size grid regions? This is "specific yet unquantifiable." Here again, we, as viewers, enjoy a great deal of freedom as we visually specify the similarities and differences. In fact, the entire painting takes on a fluid appearance as our minds define and continually redefine the hue, grid regions, and other characteristics of the painting.

What I am suggesting differs widely from issues raised by the classical view of subjectivity, posed, for instance, by the conundrum that two or more eyewitness accounts of the same event will always vary and by inference so will its outcome. Instead, the scope of this discussion is limited to paintings, and paintings are unique because they are a very deliberate communication of visual thought from one

person to the next. And just as thoughts change from person to person, the act of viewing alters the painting. For some, this transformation is subtle and may go unnoticed, because we generally believe paintings are objects apart from consciousness.

III

I love to paint, and I keep on painting until the unexpected happens: The grid morphs into a sinuous surface and dissolves at the edges to a random collection of drips. This actually happens, even though these three states - Cartesian grid, waves, and randomness - are generally believed to be mutually exclusive phenomena. So, when the viewer incorporates the painting into his consciousness, the actuality of the painting defies the conventional belief that these states cannot coexist together, and it is in this way, the viewer sees the

painting, and, more importantly, his own mind anew.

Likewise, in an apparent paradox, I use the rawness of my paint to create tension with the viewer's belief that the painting exists apart from consciousness. I make my own paint, which allows me to keep the minor surface "imperfections" that paint manufacturers must do away with. I use these unrefined surface irregularities - air bubbles, crazing and pigment particles - to remind the viewer that any sublime sensation of serenity, sensuality or joy he is experiencing resides not in the inert plastic of the raw paint, but is a state of mind attributed to the painting as it passes into his consciousness. Like wet paint, this passage is in a constant state of flux.

IV

This is the essence of existential paint. The paintings appear mercurial because

they are mercurial, never apart from the fluid dynamics of consciousness. Compare this again to the belief that paintings exist as objects apart from consciousness; our rational mind perpetuates this belief by projecting an illusion that paintings are static, inert objects. We perpetuate this fixation because we find comfort in its feigned stability. My paintings with their "specific yet unquantifiable" characteristics defy the static illusion of strict "objecthood." When we view these paintings and watch them shift, we become more intimate with the inner-workings of our minds. Then we begin to recognize that the true medium of painting is human consciousness.

Paintings in Order of Appearance

Darkness within Darkness, 27x43 inches

Au, 38x38 inches with 24k gold leaf

Blue, 38x38 inches

All Over Palladium, 27x43 inches,
    with pure palladium leaf

Painting, 20x20 inches

Horizon, 21x33 inches

Deep Thought, 30x30 inches

All paintings 2004, acrylic paint on wood

Copies of Existential Paint may be obtained from http://ardelyan.com/