Elegant, simple shapes sit on walls, or lean against them--in some instances bits are left to lie out on the floor.

These things--seemingly basic arrogates of design--ticker faster than they first appear. They entrance, and entice, but they also hold evidence of tampering--it is here where they breathe.

Small areas of colored space, elements on board, or paper; the latest bearing plastics, vinyl, and aluminum; sometimes bright, sometimes dull; shiny metallic; omnipresent vinyl; billboard texture and gloss--they are the landscape models for design.

Brent Hallard paints from the environment in which he lives. And he lives in splendid contradiction. Central Tokyo is overripe with sales and size, maxxing texture, lights, seduction, tight spots, and angles. Those who live here know that it all gets deeply impressed onto the mind with intoxicating daily measure. Hallard is not an exception to the rule--impregnations lay ready to be transferred over to the field.

In his studio there is another thing: It's empty; has low even light. There is not a sound--no distraction. In the purest sense this is a place not of this town, but it is a place where things get done; a place where to make sense of what has been done.

The only relief to all the white were large matboards, rectangles in yellow, red and blue, hung in asymmetric arrangements on all the walls. Peering at me through his glasses, he noticed my glance and said: "I've arranged these to make it more cheerful." 1

In my studio there is nothing other than a pack of boards stacked together in bundles in series or sets. On the three walls that I have available at any one time there are not more than three items. Two items hold some color, and are completed templates, while the third item is always white, and materially, usually, just a design board cut to some shape. At any time, this board has a line undergoing change, and, in a sense, is in a process of physically disintegrating. The board gets worked over so much that when you move up close to the surface you see little more than a mess of erased lines and blemishes--a filthy shape mounted to the wall. This third, and least attractive item is always the current work wasting until it's made.

1. From David Sylvester, "About Modern Art: Critical Essays, 1948-1997" - Charmion von Wiegand on Mondrian's New York studio.

text credits brent hallard 2004