Making
Paint pouring, found-material builds, structural experiments, and the ongoing project of making the environment work better.
Paint pouring looks like art. It’s also physics. The weight of each pigment, the chemicals you add to change viscosity, the pour sequence, the angle of the surface — all of it affects how fluid moves. You’re designing a system and then releasing it. The result is always a negotiation between what you intended and what the paint decided.
Nothing here with that filter yet.
When you apply fluid paint to a three-dimensional object, gravity works differently — it follows the curve, pools at the low point, runs toward the edge. When you build a skin of paint on a flat surface and peel it off and wrap it around something else, you’re transferring the record of one physical event onto a completely different form.
Nothing here with that filter yet.
A problem exists. Available materials are finite. The standard of quality is non-negotiable. These are the best conditions for making something good — the constraint is what forces the interesting decision. No budget for the elegant solution means inventing one.
Nothing here with that filter yet.
The weight of each pigment determines how it moves through the carrier fluid. Silicone oil changes the surface tension and opens cells. The pour sequence — which color hits the canvas first, which sits on top — shapes what gets buried and what rises. You can understand all of this deeply and still not fully predict what happens when the paint starts to move.
That’s the part I can’t stop chasing. The variables are mine. The outcome isn’t. Every pour is a negotiation between what I set up and what the fluid decides, and the results of that negotiation are consistently more interesting than anything I would have designed on purpose.
The constraint-based work — the lamp, the lightbox, the cardboard stool, the Pax house — comes from a different kind of pleasure: the specific satisfaction of making something real from what’s actually available. No budget for the right material means finding out what the wrong material can actually do. The plastic bag roof is waterproof. The cardboard stool holds my weight. The wicker shade became stained glass.
This is not a side project. This is where I go when I need to make something with my hands, get something wrong, figure out why, and try it again.
Every pour is a negotiation between what I set up and what the fluid decides.
On found materials
Found materials have their own logic. Following it is more interesting than overriding it. The plastic bag roof is waterproof. The cardboard stool holds body weight. The wicker shade became stained glass.
On the rules
The rules for paint pouring are well established. Certain ratios work. I read them, understood them, and then started asking what happens if you don’t follow them. The interesting pieces came from the wrong ratio, the unexpected substrate, the pour that went sideways.