Enormous Tiny Art at Nahcotta Gallery, Portsmouth, NH.

I will be taking part of a group show in Portsmouth, NH at Nahcotta Gallery. Called Enormous Tiny Art, it's a celebration of all small art, and i'm delighted to be a part of such a quaint grouping of fantastic artists. The opening is on Friday, 9/1 at Nahcotta Gallery. 6-8pm. 

Below is a link to my work in their online shop. See you there!

Growth/ Proliferation Mural at SPACE Gallery in Portland, ME.

Greetings folks, 
My new temporary drawing installation, Growth / Proliferation,  is up and installed at SPACE Gallery, in Portland, Maine. It will be up through the month of September. 
Below is the event link to SPACE's website, as well as some photos. And my write up.  Full documentation is coming soon. 


"My work explores repetitious, self-organizing symmetries in the natural world. Affected by elemental conditions, objects in the world are organized in a way that is neither crystalline nor inorganic. Water erosion sculpts mountains, and life populates those exposed fertile pockets. Thematic and fluid, these natural symmetries are accentuated through repetition which in turn create texture and form structures in negative space.

Encouraged by meditations and comprised of groups of thoughts, these symmetrical textures are largely spontaneous and inform the work I make as it is being created. The resulting marks avoid the overtly geometric while keeping in mind that self-organizing principles are the source of unchecked processes in the universe. The objects I create refer to life, erosion and become abstract structures that grow, spread, and disappear.”

--Jeff Sheridan, 2016



The moment is a storm pregnant with rain. Heavy in sky, the pressure is on. Heavy on air, heavy on hair. The hairs of your neck are akin to an iron-filling-magnet-reaction.  The smell of ozone and of weight-barometric  allows for a heightened sense of you-can't-describe-what but you-know-exactly-what. Immediacy among ruins. The wind is a nice oil between the grass. Their sound rustles in lapping gusts against the hole of your ear. Ghosts of some lost physicality we flick away like ticks off a watchface. The sun provides a backdrop against this self-aware afternoon, as if I wasn't already reminded I was on a planet, I have to be reminded of the source of the gravity that makes this whole thing spin.
For the better.
There's more than this earth. I can't say that for the grass, though.

At certain moments there seems to be an extreme widening of the macro and micro-spaces around me. Currently there is a canyon between me and my arms, outstretched yet resting on my chair, typing in my peripheral vision. My hands are miles away. I am an asteroid spinning through space.
This feeling has inconsistently persisted in my perception over the last 22 years, the first of which happening when I had a massive bacterial infection at age 6. I spent a week in bed with a 105 degree fever. This was my first peak of consciousness. I became hyper aware of myself, and of my surroundings. In a way, my body felt like it was going through labor, my consciousness being pushed further and further out of my body. I felt like I was the size of an ant, running through the swaying hair-fields of my head. I looked at the walls to the side of my bed, covered in a wallpaper that had green, blue, yellow, and red stripes. I looked at them until they wavered, vibrated, blended, and became a three dimensional space like a Magic Eye book. I had fever dreams that my father was Jafar from Aladdin. I had just watched Return of Jafar, and my dad was coming into my bedroom every hour and a half to put an icepack directly on my back to cool me off. I thought he was evil. 
  After that week, the sickness ebbed, the fever broke, and I entered the next phase of my life. Yet something remained, and that was this occasional ability to see things in a strange third person perspective. It happens when I'm focused on one thing while doing another. A story about the past, some unlocked or long since forgotten piece of nostalgia. A memory that resonates as strongly as it did the day it happened. The past is a haze of fuzz and crisp shapes. Some of it is remembered exactly. Some key items have been scanned so many times that the nuances have been lost, like a needle over an exhausted vinyl record. The feeling exists, but the intricacies have long since eroded away from too many rotations. 
And here I am, relishing in a protected and rarely-exposed perception. My fingers traverse familiar grooves, the most favorite of which are distinguished by more natural oil than others. Punched by long sinewy tendons directing bone, pulling and contracting across a cavern of space and time, weaving the past with the present. 

Small Rituals

The simple pleasure of coming downstairs after a yawn and a morning stretch to a clean kitchen ready for my daily caffeinating, is something that's taken years to perfect. And no one's perfect.  There are parties, there are fights, there are romances. Sometimes I'm sick, too. There are numerous excuses to leave the dishes for tomorrow, let it pile up, until I feel I can't do anything unless I do all of it in it's entirety. 
 My original plans for last night were to finish dinner and go up to work on more of my art. I looked at the clock and thought "Oh, it's only 9:46, it's still early." That was a deception. I thought of the time it would take to set up, procrastinate, look at my phone, respond to emails, look at my inspiration, get out my sketchbook, draw a couple lines, erase them, and so forth. It would be midnight before I got anything substantial done, and I wanted to get up early, right?
I'm thinking this as I watch the digital clock on my oven go from 9:46 to 9:47. Shit, it's basically ten o'clock. What would happen if I just went to bed after cleaning this kitchen?
This. This is what would happen. I would get up early, yawn, stretch, check my phone, pet my cat, open the blinds, let the sun in on this wonderfully bright and clear winter Portland day (early spring thanks to CO2 emissions), turn on my desk lamp in the studio, and come downstairs to a clean and organized kitchen ready for my coffee making. 
I suddenly feel like that 2 hour investment of doing a pile of dishes, cleaning the counters, picking up the mini-bar (which turns into a catch-all for oils, cups, bags of spices, coffee, and yerba mate) has suddenly come back to me in the form of inspiration this morning. Which is why I decided to have my first blog be an exploration into something extremely mundane. The mundaneity and personal accomplishment of a small ritual compounded and then expounded into a kind of piston-like karma combustion engine. Karmbustion. You can't use that. 
 The application of a small ritual, a small nuance i've been meaning to do that ultimately makes me angry that it isn't magically done already, has come back to me in the form of inspiration, and time and space. 
It takes doing. 
The whole thing isn't done, it doesn't have to be. That's not really the point, because there is no end. 
I've been applying this practice to my own artistic practice. Small nibbles here and there. A sketch, a quick doodle. Or a full layer of ink. One more layer of ink and I'm done. It becomes like a puzzle. And one large piece came in as I connected the borders of my artmaking rituals with my lifestyle ritual, and now the whole picture is starting to come together.