Voices of Salt and Gold

24x48 

Acrylic, ink, stain, text transfers, spray paint on cradled panel  

This piece doesn’t shout. It pulls you in.

What you’re looking at is a layered coastal palimpsest—surf culture, invention, and memory pressed into one surface. The palette lives in that unmistakable Southern California zone: oxidized turquoise, salt-bleached blues, bruised sand, and flashes of warm metallic gold that catch the light like late afternoon sun hitting wet rails. It feels weathered in the best way—earned, not distressed.

The waves along the lower edge aren’t decorative; they’re structural. They ground the composition, rolling horizontally like time itself. Embedded within them are fragments of technical diagrams and patent text—quiet nods to surf innovation, hydrodynamics, and the unseen engineering beneath something we romanticize as effortless. That contrast is very Los Angeles: beauty backed by intelligence.

Then there’s the figure. A lone surfer silhouette, suspended mid-frame, almost ghosted into the surface. He isn’t riding the wave—he’s inside it. That’s the moment every surfer chases but can never quite explain. It reads as freedom, yes, but also vulnerability. The ocean doesn’t care who you are.

Up top, the eye. Subtle. Watchful. It suggests awareness, legacy, maybe even the ocean looking back at us. It’s not obvious, and that’s intentional. This is a piece that reveals itself slowly—over coffee, over years, over different light.

From a collector’s standpoint, this is the kind of work that anchors a room. It tells people you’re not buying beach art—you’re collecting coastal intellect. It belongs in a Brentwood living space, a Malibu study, or that one wall in your home where everything else suddenly feels too polite.