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😅 tom.bubul@gmail.com 😅
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Rent Paintings
To purchase, or with any questions, email me: 📨 tom.bubul@gmail.com
This page is actively updated to reflect availability. Free delivery or pickup in NYC; prices do not otherwise include shipping. All forms of payment are accepted.
Please note that I also still accept commissions for any budget, though these take somewhat longer to make right now, as I'm currently working on a show.
Thanks for looking &/or your interest in supporting my studio. :)
😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅
😅 😅
😅 tom.bubul@gmail.com 😅
😅 EMAIL TO PURCHASE 😅
😅 😅
😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅
100% of proceeds from this month's rent paintings will be donated to The National Bail Out Collective.
I told my dad once that my aesthetics are entirely derived from the feeling of walking around the downstairs of his sleeping house in the dark, listening to the slight sound of the chandelier and the dishes buzzing in the cupboard. At that time I was afraid of spiders and being kidnapped. Later, I had a job in the woods, where I felt that you could see better and enjoy a fuller freedom of movement at night without a flashlight. Candlelight somehow splits the difference; when I get phonecalls from unknown numbers I pick up but don't say "hello," same thing, and my friends look best when viewed from across a fire. I was once told that in dreams "everything is you," but I think the jury's out. Pretty sure I kidnapped myself... and how could you love chandeliers but not spiders? It's important to answer in case the unknown number calling you is you. The tower is drafty, and the stairs are narrow, but you can see a long way from up there, and the rent is pretty cheap. Neither take of this painting is a self-portrait, but both were made with at minimum the above in mind.
oil on panel, 10"x8", President Street, March 2020
oil on panel, 10"x8", President Street, March 2020
I've always correlated the slouching, haunted quality of Iggy Pop "nightclubbing" with the feeling of trekking alone through the deserted Providence night streets to barely-attended gigs in the hidden depths of a warehouse. The very few best of these - as anyone compelled to travel a similar path will tell you - could derail your life, shame Kurosawa "Dreams," and/or demand to be eventually painted. "Mars Gas" once referred to a mostly-empty floor in a warehouse on Agnes Street where I found the veil between worlds to be especially thin. I picture "doing brand new dances like the nuclear bomb" or to be "bright white clubbing" as activities that take place alone in the frozen silence of winter night on the street outside this warehouse. These are two small studies after a painting of Mars Gas.
oil on panel, 5"x7", President Street, March 2020
oil on panel, 5"x7", President Street, March 2020