Across the street a house was demolished and a new one has gone up within a couple months. It’s an astonishing pace compared to the gut rehab of the upper stories of the one I live in. That took a year and a half. The sounds of construction are relentless, whether above my head or across the way.

Since starting to paint at my French easel on the sidewalk a few months ago, the sounds of the neighborhood have become a lot more of a factor. Acknowledging passersby too. From behind my window the sounds are mostly muffled and no human interaction is necessary. I say hello to the neighbor who spends his days fixing up and selling bikes but it never goes beyond simple greetings.

I’ve lived here over three years but standing out on the sidewalk makes me feel the specificity of this block. Inside your house it’s your world and in a way could be located anywhere, whereas this tree in front this bit of broken pavement is not quite like any other.

I’ve always liked painting rows of disparate houses, how they clash or cohere by architectural detail, but during this current bout of plein air, I’ve been extra cognizant of the spaces between the houses; the gangways, the narrow paths butting into chainlink or wrought iron gates, with garages and the backs of other houses partially visible in the distance.

I don’t know how these paintings relate to the collage work that’s been dominating my time the last few years but it’s all part of the same thing with me, I think. The marks, the words, whether on paper, canvas, or computer screen.

It’s all the same thing even if I don’t have a name for it.

Xylouris White at the Hideout was one of the better recent shows I’ve seen.

I talk with Stan Klein about this, that, and the other and with Mallory about Kevin and reviewed The Unknown Country.

Working on some posters for the book-release…