One of the sixteen small paintings that plays with me — holds me — the most is grounded by shiny reflections reminiscent of pennies
in a wishing well,
layered with these
thick, orgasmic (for the painterly painter), awkward rectangles of material exploration which bar out Washington like stacks of gold or grids of currency, all finally subtitled with the words, «I HOPE IT RAINS» — maybe or maybe not a reference to the Louis Prima
song, «Pennies from Heaven.»