A man sits slouched in a folding chair, still in the hat, still in the clothes, but the eight seconds are over and nobody is watching. In one hand a wilted flower. In the other a bottle turned just far enough that only one word shows: CHAMP.
Either he won, and this is the celebration, alone, holding a flower somebody handed him hours ago. Or he did not, and CHAMP is what people say on their way past you to the parking lot. Next time, champ.
The face stops where the hat brim starts, and that rule holds across the collection. The flower is the tell. It already went over, and he still has not gotten up.
47 × 24 in · Latex, gouache, acrylic and coffee on canvas · 2026
A man sits slouched in a folding chair, still in the hat, still in the clothes, but the eight seconds are over and nobody is watching. In one hand a wilted flower. In the other a bottle turned just far enough that only one word shows: CHAMP.
Either he won, and this is the celebration, alone, holding a flower somebody handed him hours ago. Or he did not, and CHAMP is what people say on their way past you to the parking lot. Next time, champ.
The face stops where the hat brim starts, and that rule holds across the collection. The flower is the tell. It already went over, and he still has not gotten up.
47 × 24 in · Latex, gouache, acrylic and coffee on canvas · 2026
