Wine on Canvas i.

—Well of course there’ll be candles.—

On whatever too much time I have spent with Wine. The languages; burst & note. The elucidation; flowers, fruits, fume & tobacco. Body & bouquet. Nut & nose—
I have only ever tasted colour. The pink wine lip gloss of a Rose’ summer.
“What does aubergine taste like? What of rose gold? Tyrian? Amaranth? —
My eyes have closed to know heliotrope”.
I saw pigment. I tasted paint.
My studio is host to many visitors.
For years corks laid strew about like bodies on battlefields. (Blood & wine seem to be interchangeable.)
Certain advisers to my insurance policy deemed them a hazard. My son spent an entire day collecting buckets full. Quickly this activity deviated to a lesson for a generation who may never experience a “rock fight.” —
No matter the number of visitors, glasses are often left half filled.
Or fucking spilled on furniture. Whiskey seems far too precious for spilling.
But wine…should be spilled. In fact, there is a romance to it. The manner in which bedsheets take to Chardonnay.
For years I have collected many of these “tragic” spills. The remainders in cut crystal at the end of an evening, or better still, a morning.
Pouring them on canvases rather then down drains. The stories and their authors I have often documented. Pencil on paper. —So many things are two surfaces touching.—A car crash.
A kiss. A footstep. A fistfight.
What drowning is.—water & lung.
Wine very naturally finds its antithesis. Touching—The perfection of clean & white.
It embeds itself, sediments, stain, and story.

Wine on canvas. (60”x60”)
A Portrait
byJasonKoharik 2020,21,22,23 (I think)
1 in a series of far too many
$6500