currently // artist statement
Surreal, uncomfortable, sublime. Tits and emotional grit. Raw paint on wounded material. All just a few words that have been used to describe Morgan's work over the years, throughout Atlanta, GA all the way to Southern California, and now in Asheville, NC and Greenville, SC. With a heady focus on figurative, naturalist and botanical subjects, and a strong gravitation toward the fantastical and eerie, Morgan's art often arrives at a place that kisses beauty and flirts with decay. It is a constant exploration of discontent in a life marred by trash and thick with loveliness, an existential itching of the skin, a crawling sensation across the canvas. Working in oil, watercolor, ink and relief printing, Morgan has recently dove headfirst into a prolific new body of work that marries the mediums of poetry, ink and skin.
currently // city of greenville, sc
"Metropolis Bound"
Low country, girl,
we are leaving you behind.
Among your baiyou and your birds singing deep and sweet,
your heady locust lemonade days,
cornfields and hay-yellow hair and triple-dog-dares,
we are vanishing, we are silver and slick and speed,
we are leaving you for the big city.
You can stay with the bullfrogs and their quartets,
the creek and the lilies and the hot sigh on the hot porch on a hot night,
you can stay and sweep those wooden steps where we left our prints
and you can stay and boil those shrimp,
and be the one that remembers when the town
wasn't full of ghosts
and by-gones
and bitterness.
But we, we are leaving
we are on the last caravan out, my low country girl
and we will drink and dine and dance and deviate
and when we are tired and dark and sweet with the city
we will speak of you with wistful lips
hooded eyes and
remembered bliss.
Low country, girl,
we are leaving you behind.
Among your baiyou and your birds singing deep and sweet,
your heady locust lemonade days,
cornfields and hay-yellow hair and triple-dog-dares,
we are vanishing, we are silver and slick and speed,
we are leaving you for the big city.
You can stay with the bullfrogs and their quartets,
the creek and the lilies and the hot sigh on the hot porch on a hot night,
you can stay and sweep those wooden steps where we left our prints
and you can stay and boil those shrimp,
and be the one that remembers when the town
wasn't full of ghosts
and by-gones
and bitterness.
But we, we are leaving
we are on the last caravan out, my low country girl
and we will drink and dine and dance and deviate
and when we are tired and dark and sweet with the city
we will speak of you with wistful lips
hooded eyes and
remembered bliss.
