iconography. He weaves them together using confident, impassioned gestures and with tropical colors set against dark grounds. They are haunting, electrically charged and utterly convincing. So much so that you may wonder if the artist witnessed the events he depicts. While nothing I’ve read confirms this, other parts of his biography suggest that possibility while also pointing to alternate ways of seeing and knowing.
A survey of the artist’s history, gleaned from exhibition catalogs, shows close affinities to Jean Michel Basquait, Keith Haring, Sue Coe and Raymond Saunders. We also learn from these sources that he is a practitioner “psychotropic therapy,” which, if I recall Carlos Castaneda correctly, entails the ingestion of ayahuasca, a powerful hallucinogen that can just as easily shred the mind as open it to startling visions. Which may explain how Feldscott is able to credibly channel the horror of war without actually experiencing it.