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Miles Shapiro

As a painter, I strive to not only capture the image of a friend ravaged by self-inflicted wounds, nor just of a proud man certain he has something to say, and neither of a woman emotionally wounded by years of loss, nor even of a simple bouquet of flowers.  Rather I look to present the nobility in a man’s self-preservation, another’s gentility and hope through verbal elegance, a woman’s thoroughly lived life, an abstract beauty in an arbitrary floral presentation. 

How to do that?  I have to make what I know to be true about that image, whether seen on my analog retina or my digital computer screen, by manipulating paint to accentuate colors, distort perspective, crop until nonsensical to show that woman‘s loss; an addict’s dignity, a writer’s hope, lyrical shapes.  I seek something other than what is there; instead, something that is not on the visual surface, but instead how that image makes me and then you feel.  The pixels of the self-destructive friend’s image can’t show years of struggle.  Flowers don’t determine composition.  I have to. I think that’s the job.

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