A Seat at
the Table

The marsh from Aftermath revisited. Five chairs deep in a field almost too pretty for what it's actually saying.

A single chair in pink and red, angled toward absence. An early anchor piece in the show's recurring motif of empty seats.

A field rendered fast, in hand-worked color, its road left deliberately unresolved.

An empty couch caught in fading light. A room that holds a conversation it can no longer repeat.

A faceless cobalt figure marked by a visible wound and blunt painted text. One of the most direct works in the exhibition.

Furniture rendered like the last things left behind in a room someone is about to leave.

Two openings, painted from two different moods, that never fully resolve what they let in.

An unguarded domestic moment, painted without performance or apology.

The work that set the show's course. One empty seat, no table yet, and the specific ache that started everything.

A softly dripping room that hasn't finished resolving itself, built around one small living thing.

Two white chairs facing an implied table, painted like the ghosts of a conversation that already happened.

Pure color, no furniture at all. What's left of the feeling once every object is taken away.

A loose, imagined landscape standing in for the need to rest.

Twin stools on a checkerboard floor, staged like a scene that hasn't started yet.

The quietest painting in the show. Patient, steady, unhurried.

A room split between cool and warm, with no chair in sight. The seat is wherever you're standing.

Two fields of red set side by side, close but never quite in agreement.

Three chairs left out in a marsh, two more fading into the distance behind them. The painting that gave the exhibition its name.

A chair holding its ground against a dark, reaching shape at the edge of a checkerboard floor.

A quieter register. A bench, low light, and flowers that didn't wait for permission to bloom.

A field of empty chairs beneath a bruised red sky, echoing the marsh in Aftermath at a wider, quieter scale.

Two chairs face off across a checkered floor, caught mid-argument that never needed words.

A worn armchair holds a blanket like a body, framed by a window full of weather rolling in.

A figure folds into shadow, all silhouette and slouch, watching from the cheap seats.

Two shapes sit back to back in wooden chairs, a sliver of dusk-colored light standing in for whatever passed between them.

A single chair tips into an orange sky, a second study of the shape that keeps returning.