Texas
This diptych titled Texas juxtaposes a coiled red hose in a basement with a sun-damaged, fragmented male face. Through spatial dislocation and symbolic resonance, the work questions how place and identity are constructed from fragments of labor, mythology, and image.
At first glance, Texas presents two seemingly unrelated photographs: a coiled red hose against a cement-block basement wall and a close-up of a sun-scorched, damaged image of a man’s face. Yet through juxtaposition and the power of association, these disparate fragments converge into a potent visual meditation on myth, labor, and American identity.
In the left panel, the red hose loops against a background of dark masonry, dimly lit and bordered by rough wood beams. The industrial quality of the space suggests functionality, perhaps a workshop or cellar. Yet the shape of the hose, suspended mid-wall, unmistakably evokes a lariat—a visual cue that gestures toward cowboy imagery, cattle drives, and the mythology of the American West. The color—a saturated red—injects a note of urgency or warning, pushing the object beyond mere utilitarianism into the realm of symbol.
The right panel offers a stark contrast in tone and treatment. A man’s face, cropped to emphasize the eye, cheekbone, and brow, is rendered in blistering reds and oranges. This is not a live subject, but a torn print or poster, its surface punctured and peeling. The illusion of sweat beads formed by holes in the paper introduces a physicality that borders on illusion. The man appears to look back, though what he sees—or avoids—is left to the imagination. He is not portrait so much as relic, disintegrating under the weight of sun and time.
The power of the diptych lies in the friction between these two frames. On one side: a silent, orderly object in an enclosed, subterranean space. On the other: a broken, expressive visage under imagined heat. These elements never touch, but they speak across the seam that divides them. The viewer is asked to construct the narrative bridge—perhaps one of place, perhaps one of metaphor. The title, Texas, does not describe so much as provoke. It gestures toward geography but also toward a cultural psyche shaped by heat, labor, masculinity, and enduring mythology.
Compositionally, the work uses symmetry to highlight contrast. The tight frame of each panel confines the viewer’s gaze, drawing attention to surface textures—the coarse cinderblock, the frayed paper, the saturated tones. Color plays a crucial role, with red acting as a connective agent between the two panels. It moves from object to skin, from coil to cheek, linking one frame’s form with the other’s implied emotion.
Conceptually, Texas can be read as a commentary on how regional identity is not fixed but constructed through symbols, labor remnants, and visual mythology. The lariat is not being used; the man is not truly sweating. These are echoes of action, fragments of a narrative we think we know. In this way, the work plays with the idea of authenticity, asking whether the image of a place is more enduring than its reality.
Historically, American art has often leaned on the mythos of the West—open spaces, heroic figures, tools of labor—as shorthand for independence or grit. Texas questions this trope by presenting only the leftovers: a loop without a hand, a face without a name. What remains is not the hero, but the imprint. And in that imprint, we find a more complex, even uneasy, reflection of cultural identity.
Ultimately, the diptych offers no resolution—only a suspended moment where two visual fragments evoke a world larger than themselves. By placing labor and heat, object and body, past and present into visual dialogue, Texas invites viewers to reconsider how myth is not inherited whole but assembled in pieces—faded, fragmented, and always open to re-interpretation.
Essay written: May 2025