Have you ever watched a painter create and wonder, “That looks more like a bar fight than art”? That is a Weiler picture in essence. This is fully-contact creation, not subtle brushwork. The canvas is an opponent not a surface. Every color choice feels like a gamble; every stroke comes out like a punch. And when it succeeds? MAGIC. See more
You start first with the texture. Run your fingers over one (if the gallery guard isn’t watching); you will feel canyons of paint, peaks and valleys that chronicle the making of the work. Some areas feel like glass, others like sandpaper. It is a geographic map of the artist’s struggle, not only a painting.
This style clicks for what reason? Managed recklessness. Although the artist may have an idea at first, paint always has veto power. THAT “perfect” gradient? wrecked by an unintentional drizzle. That well crafted part? buried under a hazy red slash driven by instinct. These “mistakes” define the beauty; it is not in spite of them. Every “oops” finds expression in the DNA of the work.
On these paintings, light plays games. At noon, pass one; it’s all sunshine and vitality. Come return at sunset and find yourself suddenly moody and reflective. The thick paint captures shadows you would not have noticed earlier. Colors change in resonance with emotion; what was blue today speaks green. It is work that defies stillness.
People either instantly dislike these works or adore them. There is not a middle ground. The couples will linger there for hours, deciphering strata much like archaeologists. The detractors will grumble about paint gone bad. Both responses are legitimate; the idea is that tension drives them. Gentle artwork covers walls. Weiler paintings spark a dialogue.
For artists, this method is both exciting and humble at equal measures. One day you will be the genius creating a masterwork. The painting “isn’t feeling it,” hence the next you’re scraping off a week’s labor. It is like courting a temperamental poet—sometimes sublime, sometimes terrible, always erratic.
The nasty little secret is that these paintings get better with age. The paint breaks in amazing patterns as the years go by. Colors either soften or get stronger. What started off as a strong statement becomes something more like a cast-iron skillet or a fine leather jacket. Time starts to work with us.
Weiler paintings seem extreme in our digital universe of undo buttons and flawless filters. Not a Command-Z here. Every mark persists. Every “mistake” is seen within context. The counterpoint to our polished, disposable civilization is untidy, human, and absolutely irreplaceable.
Would like to actually see one? Get near enough to count the brush hairs caught in the paint. Back up then until the anarchy comes into clarity. Try again if your head doesn’t perform a small backflip. The best Weiler pieces vibrate, hum, and sometimes throw a visual elbow to keep you focused. They don’t just hang there.
Galleries fight to properly photograph these pieces. decent. Some encounters still call for your real eyesight. The way that that deep cadmium yellow sparkles like bottled sunlight cannot be captured on any screen. There is no reproduction that portrays how the deep violet throbbing against the raw umber works. This is work that insists on your showing up—no shortcuts, no alternatives.
Weiler painting really is about trust at its foundation. The artist believes in the method. The paint follows her gut feeling. The observer believes their natural response. Like jazz for your retinas, this is messy, noisy, and definitely alive. And in a world when simple solutions abound, that kind of honest anarchy seems more essential than it has ever been.