In Gardener Play, the bouquet isn’t a polite accessory—it’s a whole painted weather system. Large blossoms crowd the left half of the canvas in thick, tangled strokes; leaves and petals stack until they feel almost architectural. The figure stands beside them, upright and muscular, his skin built from hot reds and corals that cut sharply against a saturated blue background. On the right, a dark tabletop and a small jar of flowers add a quieter echo.
The painting works beautifully in rooms with changing light. Warm light intensifies the reds in the torso and pulls out the cream notes in the blossoms; cooler light makes the blues deepen and the figure’s cooler streaks come forward. It holds attention from across the room, then pays you back when you step close: you can read the decisions in the paint.
This piece is sensual without being loud. It’s about proximity—how ornament can press in, how a body can stay calm inside that pressure, how play can still have teeth.
