Joe Bradley - Albright-Knox · The Fisherman’s Friend, 2006 Acrylic on canvas in four parts Collection of Marie Abma and Dike Blair In 2004 Bradley created his first groupings of

Joe Bradley

June 24–October 1, 2017

1905 Building, North Galleries

Joe Bradley (American, born 1975) is widely known for his powerful abstract paintings and

instinctive drawings. This mid-career survey illustrates how, with minimal fuss, he also

pivots between abstraction and figuration, the earnest and the comic. By contextualizing

Bradley’s diverse bodies of work from the past decade, the exhibition captures his ever-

changing approach to artmaking and unique take on abstraction and the evolutions of style.

He has observed, “I think that time moves slower in painting. And maybe that accounts for

a lot of the anxiety around painting in the last forty or fifty years. You have the twentieth

century wrapping up and everything is moving at this breakneck speed? And then, painting

is still walking. It’s just a very human activity that takes time.”

Bradley grew up in large family in Kittery, Maine, and remembers drawing from a young

age. He was fascinated with comics both mainstream and underground, everything from

Marvel to R. Crumb. Bradley recalls, “I think I could have made it as a gag cartoonist, but

somehow painting took over.” When he began studying art as an undergraduate at the

Rhode Island School of Design, Bradley discovered art history and started devouring

paintings from the 1960s and 1970s by the Chicago Imagists and Philip Guston, the

spontaneous drawings of Cy Twombly and A. R. Penck, and the heavily layered nineteenth-

century landscapes of Albert Pinkham Ryder.

The exhibition begins with examples of two “modular” paintings—multiple canvases

assembled into oddly humorous humanoid figures—like those shown in Bradley’s first New

York solo exhibition in 2006. Subsequent galleries focus on different bodies of work from the

past decade, including Bradley’s quickly sketched and immediately engaging drawings and

his Schmagoo paintings: a series of grease-pencil drawings on canvas that debuted in 2008.

Several galleries are dedicated to Bradley’s densely layered expressionistic abstract

canvases, dating from 2010 to the present, that record the detritus and spontaneity of the

studio environment. The exhibition also includes examples of Bradley’s recent figurative

bronzes based on found amateur sculpture and his silkscreen paintings based on the wide-

ranging images—from comics to outdated periodicals—that so often inspire his work.

The Fisherman’s Friend, 2006

Acrylic on canvas in four parts

Collection of Marie Abma and Dike Blair

In 2004 Bradley created his first groupings of colored canvases: his modular paintings.

Many, like The Fisherman’s Friend, feature a rectangular stretcher that reads as a torso

when installed above two long, skinny “legs” firmly standing on the floor and topped with a

small square “head.” Bradley’s former college professor, the artist Dike Blair (American,

born 1952), has written about the sense of humor conveyed in The Fisherman’s Friend,

which was inspired by the sign for a Maine seafood restaurant:

The dull, dirty white canvas of the head looks and feels like some soiled cotton

sailor’s cap, and it’s perfectly sympathetic to the rain-slicker yellow of the body. The

yellow acrylic paint almost covers the texture of the canvas, so it closely

approximates the look and feel of rubber-coated fabric. I don’t think this kind of

canny representation is the point of the painting, but it’s certainly a great byproduct.

Rusty, 2007

Acrylic on canvas in four parts

Collection of Suzanne Butler and Didier

Loulmet

Following the first solo show of his work, held in 2002 at the Allston Skirt Gallery in Boston,

Bradley kept thinking about how his paintings—some single-panel, some monochrome,

some more object-like—related to one another but maintained their own distinct sensibilities

and personalities. Bradley’s modular paintings, like the two in this room, grew out of this

notion that the paintings could be different characters, related bodies that vary in

arrangement and color. To this day, Bradley continues to wrestle with a number of

fundamental painterly questions first put forth in the modular paintings, including how

painting relates to its material support, how to deal with color on that support (over the

course of the series, Bradley replaced acrylic-painted canvas with colored vinyl), and how

the coexistence of abstraction and figuration within the same field might result in an

unlikely and even humorous marriage. Even as Bradley has shifted course from one series

to the next, these essential questions have remained at the core of his practice.

BAX, 2008

Grease pencil on canvas

Private Collection, Massachusetts

When the modular semi-figurative paintings that Bradley began in 2004 became

increasingly mechanical in their construction—vinyl configurations planned on paper and

with a measuring tape—Bradley decided to move on. He recounts, “My studio practice was

starting to feel like manual labor, just staple gunning all day long.” The modular paintings

set an important course for the artist but also cemented his desire to work in a manner that

allowed him more decision-making opportunities throughout the process—and more fun. For

his next body of work, the Schmagoo paintings (begun in 2008 and named after their debut

gallery show), he took quite a different tack. The works in this gallery are essentially

drawings on canvas: radically simple, stenographic forms or symbols in grease pencil on

untreated canvas drop cloths.

Untitled (mouth), 2009

Oil crayon on canvas

Collection of Jay Gorney and Tom Heman

Around 2008, Bradley began attempting to merge painting with his critical and ongoing

drawing practice. Works such as Untitled (mouth) monumentalize the simple sketch by

presenting a single, unsophisticated glyph at a scale that demands one’s undivided

attention. Color is eliminated, and line holds sway. Marks of Bradley’s process—smudges,

footprints, and general studio grime—also become part of the otherwise spare visual field in

the Schmagoo paintings. This underscores a lack of preciousness and suggests an openness

to the idea of “building damage into the work,” something that has interested the artist

throughout his practice.

On the Cross, 2008


Hall Art Foundation

Superman, 2008


Hall Art Foundation

Here, Bradley renders a Superman logo as the main event in a composition that recalls

pictograms, the artistic endeavors of young children, and experiments by artists like Jean

Dubuffet (French, 1901–1985), who attempted to harness an unlearned, direct style. Seen

in relation to Bradley’s earlier modular paintings, the emblems in Superman and On the

Cross take on additional significance, not just as immediately recognizable signs but also as

resonant forms.

Abelmuth, 2008


The Museum of Modern Art, New York

Gift of Adam Kimmel, 2013

This painting is based on an image of a Christ fish, or ichthys, in the mouth of a larger fish

originally imagined by the author Philip K. Dick. In Bradley’s hands, the motif becomes

another iconic yet paradoxically humble form, like the cross or Superman logo also on view

in this gallery. Initially, Bradley thought of the glyph in Abelmuth as symbolizing the end of

history, and he returned to it in at least one subsequent work.

Pig Pen, 2010

Oil, spray paint, and mixed media on

canvas

Private Collection

When they first debuted, paintings like Pig Pen and others in this gallery surprised many

people familiar with Bradley’s earlier series. These works no longer operated in the “one-

shot” manner of the Schmagoo paintings; their images need to be teased out from material

tangles of paint. They also point to a more abject side of Bradley’s work, underscored by his

frequent reliance on mucky browns, deep magentas, and black tones. Pig Pen, based on the

unkempt Peanuts gang character who goes through life surrounded by a swirl of dirt,

comprises a rough-hewn mass of brown paint that conceals small patches of purple and

green and is topped by a web of brown scribbles. It is as if the paint itself has buried a

figure within.

All Duck, 2010

Oil on canvas

Collection of Cynthia and Abe Steinberger

This painting can be linked with the semi-figurative graphic forms found in Bradley’s

Schmagoo paintings (on view in the adjacent gallery). In works like All Duck, the thing-like

abstract elements found in the Schmagoo paintings are now suspended in atomized fields of

color and stain. Footprints made while the canvas was on the studio floor are as important

to the composition as deliberately painted gestures. This work’s title may relate equally to

the yellow beak-like V on the right side of the canvas as to its cotton duck support, which is

a prominent part of the composition. Here, as in other paintings in this gallery, Bradley

treated the canvas as a material receptor designed to capture the action of the studio

alongside his own compositional decisions.

Drac, 2011

Oil and crayon on canvas

Collection of James Keith Brown and Eric

Diefenbach

The cartoonish humanoid figure within Drac combines elements of Bradley’s drawing

practice with his increasingly ambitious abstract painting. It also recalls the exaggerated

stride of the characters in R. Crumb’s legendary 1968 “Keep on Truckin’” comic, which

became ubiquitous in both mainstream and alternative culture during the late 1960s and

1970s. Around 2011, Bradley began making his larger canvases by working on the studio

floor, a setup that allowed him the same bird’s-eye view he enjoyed while drawing. Now,

Bradley was in the painting as he made it. Jackson Pollock (American, 1912–1956) famously

wrote about the sensation of being “in” his floor-based drip paintings while making them;

this allowed him, as he phrased it, to “get acquainted” with the work in relation to his own

body while still holding a degree of distance from the activity itself. Even as Bradley’s

process was practical rather than performative, elements of this sensibility ring true. As he

has described it, “You need one foot on turf, on land, and one foot in the cosmos.”

Flattop, 2011

Oil on canvas

Private Collection, courtesy of the Heller

Group

Geisha, 2011

Oil on canvas

Collection of François Odermatt

This work is installed in the 1962

Building

Joe Bradley's work, much more of which may be seen in his mid-career survey exhibition in

the 1905 Building, encompasses monumental painterly abstractions like Geisha and

silkscreens based in the graphic linework of anonymous zines, stenographic grease-pencil

drawings on drop cloth and reimaginings of amateur sculpture.

For Bradley, art history is a vast library of gestures and attitudes ripe for rediscovery, and

throughout his wide-ranging career he has consistently engaged with the ideas and

practices of his predecessors. A common thread among Bradley’s diverse bodies of work is a

unique sensitivity to materials and to the union of color and surface, a preoccupation of the

Abstract Expressionists among other twentieth-century modernists. “I think in painting,

having such a long history, one can pick up a thread that’s fifty or sixty years old, but it

doesn’t feel like an antique idea,” he has explained.

Bukkah Beah, 2012

Oil on canvas

Ringier Collection, Switzerland

Bukkah Beah, like several other works in this and the adjacent gallery, is made up of

swatches from multiple canvases that have been cut, reconfigured, and stitched together.

Bradley developed this process as an attempt at “glitching”—a word he likes to use—his own

working method. It was a way to disrupt any conventional sense of composition. He could

cut away a section of a painting that was no longer working and replace it with another,

expand a painting or shrink it, and adjust the orientation almost endlessly. Instead of the

one centralized motif characteristic of his previous paintings, here several distinct elements

are placed next to one another.

These works return to the ideas of modularity Bradley first explored in his early works such

as The Fisherman’s Friend. The left side of this grid of cut-and-sewn canvases is dominated

by a painted checkerboard pattern—one of the artist’s favorite motifs—that seems to jockey

for prominence with other abstract forms. The form in the upper-right quadrant resembles a

messy brown rendering of one of Claes Oldenburg’s (American, born Sweden, 1929) many

stylized mouse faces. Below, a ghost of a painting on the canvas’s reverse testifies to this

work’s complicated and deliberate evolution.

East Coker, 2013

Oil on canvas

Private Collection

In the group of works presented in this gallery, Bradley appears to have thoroughly

digested the languages of Abstract Expressionism and emerged with something altogether

new. As he began adding more paint to his canvases, building up the surfaces with broader

ranges of color and filling in more of the raw space, his subjects became more deeply

immersed, no longer immediately legible as drawn imagery. Large paintings like East Coker

or the smaller but more densely covered Muggles #2 (also on view in this gallery) call to

mind the hovering color fields of Joan Mitchell (American, 1925–1992) or even the broadly

brushed late landscapes of Willem de Kooning (American, born the Netherlands, 1904–

1997). Rather than responses to these earlier works, Bradley’s paintings push their

languages further, treading through uncharted terrain. Bradley’s painting process is

mysterious and open-ended; he only declares the painting is finished “when you look at it

and it looks like it came from someone else.”

Dutch, 2013

Oil on canvas

The Brant Foundation, Greenwich,

Connecticut

Bradley pushes preconceived forms and composition aside when he begins to paint, starting

from scratch with each work. These working methods are illustrated in Dutch’s densely

layered forms, surprising bursts of yellow and red, and ghostly shadows of paintings on the

back of the canvas. Artist Carroll Dunham (American, born 1949) observed a searching

quality in Bradley’s work, as if he’s “digging around in the painting to find” his subjects. It’s

as if the image was there all along, but Bradley had to both work through it and allow it to

emerge.

Love Boat, 2013

Oil on canvas

Collection of Richard Prince

Made up of portions from four different canvases, this painting refers to the late 1970s and

early 1980s television sitcom of the same name. The individual elements are loosely

associated through resonant forms and relationships between primary colors. Nonetheless,

they come together like patterns in a quilt, forging a unified composition through

juxtaposition. Wave-like brushes of blue paint suggest portions of the television show’s logo,

and yellow polka dots signal a Pop sensibility, whether via the Ben-Day dots of Roy

Lichtenstein (American, 1923–1997), the collaged fabrics of Robert Rauschenberg

(American, 1925–2008), or other touch points from Larry Poons (American, born Japan,

1937) to Sigmar Polke (German, 1941–2010). A brown field balanced on either side by

areas of red or black paint conjures Adolf Gottlieb’s (American, 1903–1974) Burst paintings.

The upper-left quadrant is covered over with white, as if its contents had been redacted.

Bradley admits that he “couldn’t have made a painting like this on purpose”—a form of

praise for this collage-like process.

Muggles #2, 2013

Oil on canvas

Private Collection, courtesy of the Heller

Group

Osawantomie, 2015

Oil on canvas

Collection of François Odermatt

Bradley’s seemingly abstract compositions nonetheless always bear some connection to the

human form. His best paintings and drawings come from the artist’s investment in the

comic, the improvised, the unskilled, and the abject. Sometimes these sources of inspiration

almost disappear within the paintings. But the things he loves—children’s drawings, hobo

markings, things you might find under a tarp in an alleyway, brown that feels soiled—also

demand the status of art all by themselves.

Coachwhip, 2015

Oil on canvas


Connecticut

Veitch, 2015

Oil on canvas

Collection of Laura and Stafford Broumand

Maag Areal, 2015

Oil on canvas

Hall Collection

Club Foot, 2015

Oil on canvas

Bill Bell Collection

Untitled, 2017

Oil on canvas

Courtesy the artist and Gagosian

Dreadlocks in Moonlight (White), 2016

Bronze, edition 1/4

Collection of Larry Gagosian

This exhibition includes a group of sculptures Bradley recently made through copying, re-

presenting, and sometimes casting in bronze figurative amateur sculptures he finds or buys

online. The project is related to Bradley’s encounters with centuries-old objects in New

York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sometimes, these objects seem to him like time

travelers—they appear too powerfully immediate, too fresh to be so old. By manipulating

the scale, material, color, and composition of the sculptures he takes as inspiration, Bradley

attempts to re-create this sense of temporal displacement, making contemporary art from

objects that may originally date from the 1960s and 1970s. Some of the sculptures have a

jokey, 1970s “Keep on Truckin’” vibe, while others convey the earnestness of an adult

education art class. The sculptures that inspired his own three-dimensional works have

become pieces of truth for Bradley; they’re odd and familiar and awkward and funny and

clearly beloved, all at the same time. They are both art and the inspiration for art.

Untitled, 2016

Bronze


Feet, 2017

Bronze


Despair, 2017

Bronze


Head, 2017

Bronze


Untitled, 2017

Bronze


Sculpture for Billy Hand, 2017

Aluminum

Courtesy the artist

This work belongs to a group of color-saturated, human-sized, cuboid sculptures that recall

Bradley’s modular paintings, like The Fisherman’s Friend and Rusty. In this series, which the

artist began in 2014, sculpture is transformed into an unavoidable and somewhat awkward

presence, like a visiting houseguest who doesn’t know when to leave.

PLASTIC WALL PLAQUE TBT, 2017

Etched plastic plaque


In previous installations of large-scale modular sculptures like Sculpture for Billy Hand,

Bradley has placed plastic plaques similar to this one on nearby walls. Each features a

mysterious found-text snippet; previous messages have included VISUALIZE DOLPHINS,

ALIEN WHALE, EAT A PEACH, and RUDE DOG ON SAFARI. The small verbal fragments may

be seen as textual echoes of the found drawings Bradley uses for his silkscreens or the lists

of titles he collects for his paintings.

Mother and Child, 2016

Oil on canvas

Collection of Larry Gagosian

Many of the concerns present in Bradley’s modular paintings are still at play in works, like

Mother and Child, created a decade later. Like the modular paintings, Mother and Child is

built from elemental blocks of color and explores the optical and material relationship

between them—here, a broad, rectangular stretch of blue, a square of yellow, and two

swatches of red. The color fields maintain their autonomy, but unlike their modular painting

counterparts, they also overlap, intrude on, and expose themselves within other fields. The

edges are defined, but roughly so, and the monochromatic passages are heavily layered and

worked, even scruffy at times. The addition of black and gray (as well as underlayers of

pinkish tones and incidental marks of green) grounds the painting, pushing it beyond a

simple color study and suggesting an earthly or human presence. At once a landscape or, as

the title insinuates, a double portrait, Mother and Child is both figural and abstract, celestial

and earthly, and its simple forms resonate with both an eclipsed sun and a pair of nestled

heads, a horizon or a body. Bradley described the color relationships in the modular

paintings as “listening to two radio stations at the same time,” and in subsequent works, he

has continued to seek this sense of tension, emphasizing what he sees as painting’s unique

ability “to broadcast contradictory content in a single view.”

Bishop, 2016

Oil and acrylic on canvas

Collection of Wendi Murdoch

When asked about the relationship between his wildly disparate bodies of work, Bradley

once commented, “It’s like skin. . . . The work all shares the same sort of DNA, but it just

looks different.” And if the artist’s paintings of the past decade are indeed kin, Bishop might

be a raucous family reunion of sorts. From the Schmagoo paintings, it revisits the iconic

mark, the minimal form capable of holding its own in the composition of a large-scale

painting. Here, the two intersecting lines in the upper left may read as a cross or simply as

cousins of the more minor scrapes and flecks of transferred paint that speckle Bishop’s

yellow-and-white checked ground. The overall composition is also something of a callback to

a series of vinyl checkerboard paintings from 2014. The pattern is a favorite of the artist’s

and appears in a number of drawings from the same period as well as in some of Bradley’s

cut-and-sewn abstractions, where it guides the patchwork of these paintings’ incongruous

parts.

Da Free John, 2017

Oil on canvas

Private Collection

Out Joy, 2017

Oil on canvas

Yusaku Maezawa Collection

Bradley’s paintings of 2017, including Out Joy, hint at a geometric logic largely absent from

his earlier works. They feature clear fields of color and the sort of compositional harmony

one has grown not to expect in Bradley’s work. These paintings also have a deep resonance

with landscape. With their flatly contoured forms, abutting fields of color, and glowing

haloes of light, Bradley’s most recent paintings assert landscape’s unique ability to capture

abstraction and representation within the same frame.

Day by Day, 2017

Oil on canvas

Collection of Cindy and Liam Tay

Bradley has described creating abstract paintings such as this one as a process of working

past the conscious mind and exhaustion itself in order to achieve something wholly one’s

own, explaining,

I think there’s a moment early on when a painting looks good, it looks passable. And

then what has to happen at that point is that you have to go back into it and really

mess it up. And that’s hard. There’s this tug of war, this internal dialogue where you

think, “Maybe this is it. I’m good. This is good.” But then you know it’s not really

good. Usually at that stage it’s relying heavily on old paintings. It looks like an

“appropriate” painting. And I think once you go back into it and mess it all up, then

possibility opens up—and this is again about distancing yourself, kind of removing

yourself—because once you’re not proud of it, you can kind of do anything to it

because it feels like a lost cause. And then at that point you can really paint. But you

have to kick it over the edge first. You have to kill it.

Good World, 2017

Oil on canvas

Collection Albright-Knox Art Gallery

Gift of Mrs. George A. Forman, by

exchange; the Albert H. Tracy Fund, by

exchange; the Charles W. Goodyear Fund,

by exchange; and the George B. and Jenny

R. Mathews Fund, by exchange, 2017

Bradley is known for painting almost exclusively on unstretched canvases, which evolve

between the wall and the floor as they are pinned and unpinned, stacked and layered, and

even walked on. However, Good World and other recent paintings were developed using

stretched canvases. In earlier unstretched works, Bradley continued painting to the edge of

his canvases and then “cropped” them before having stretchers made to the compositions’

finalized dimensions. In this new series, the artist challenged himself to activate and

incorporate the edge as a specific part of his composition. In the end Bradley admitted that

“old habits die hard,” and he found that he needed to revisit familiar processes,

unstretching and restretching many of the canvases and returning them to the floor in order

to bring the paintings to fruition.

Good World’s parallel planes of black and yellow are deceptively simple. Close examination

reveals that the canvas has been painted on both sides, torn, cut, added to, crumpled, and

layered. Formal tension remains along the painting’s edge and in the upper-left corner,

where yellow, red, and blue (interrupted only by a strategic pink smudge) battle for

dominance. In this same area, a small flap hints at the processes of cutting and sewing that

went into making this work.

Family, 2017

Silkscreen ink on canvas


Around 2010, Bradley began directly using the source materials for his drawings to make a

series of silkscreen paintings that feature everything from the graphic arrangement of stars

to running horses borrowed from an old high school yearbook, from enormous text paintings

to an image from the 1970s periodical Radical Therapy, and on and on. These works allowed

the artist to translate the origins of his drawing practice to the scale, and ostensibly the

importance, of painting—a process that continues his aspirations for the Schmagoo

paintings. He has often exhibited his silkscreens simultaneously with his heavily worked

abstractions. This decision effectively insists that Bradley’s luscious, fleshy abstractions

remain contextually near to the often unseemly comic material ricocheting around in his

brain.

Bradley’s abstractions are the result of a long process of slowly and methodically

confronting what it means to make a successful painting. Bradley has spoken of needing to

“kill” his own conventionally good or appropriate paintings in order to develop something

new. Despite its inherent contrariness, this is the working method of a serious painter, the

kind who can spend a whole day in the studio just staring at works in progress. In the face

of such earnestness, Bradley’s regular, yet sometimes startling, forays into assemblage,

sculpture, and graphic silkscreens may well be considered the artist’s pursuit of fun—a way

to keep working in the face of the exhaustion endemic to his type of abstract painting.

Horse, 2017



Can, 2017



Music, 2017

Silkscreen on canvas


Horses, 2017



Peace, 2017



School, 2017



XYZ Painting, 2017

Acrylic on canvas


Shortly after making his earliest modular paintings, like The Fisherman’s Friend and Rusty

(on view in this exhibition), Bradley came to prefer the unbroken fields of color made

possible by using commercially produced colored vinyl as opposed to painting the canvases

by hand. He has commented that “despite my best efforts, there were moments when you

could get lost in a painterly area” in the early works, and the vinyl helped to combat these

distractions. He embraced the ripples, puckers, and sags that were inherent to his cheap

materials, and these features are recognizable characteristics of these works and most of

his subsequent paintings. The now-vinyl modular paintings gradually became larger and

were widely exhibited. However, in these works his main creative acts were ultimately

limited to choosing color and stretching and stapling the material. He stopped making these

Lego-like works for a number of years after 2008, only returning to them recently. In

paintings such as this one, made specifically for this exhibition, Bradley continues to explore

the new color combinations and compositions these works enable.

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Piles of books, records, zines, vintage yearbooks, comics, pamphlets, and all manner of

printed ephemera litter Bradley’s studio. Along with graffiti, children’s drawings, and many

other unconventional sources of inspiration, these help motivate his drawings, which are in

turn deeply connected to all of his other artwork. The genius of Bradley’s drawings is their

utter indifference to categories. They are not “deskilled” or “graffiti” or “art brut.” They are

not exercises in draftsmanship. They do not contain schematic notes or hints at process.

There is no background or foreground, no attempt at volumetric rendering. They do not

reference objects in the world. They are mostly line drawings with a figural subject rendered

in charcoal, pen, or graphite on blank sheets. They are cartoon drawings, but without

narrative or any describable forms, so you can’t read into them, which means they’re not,

strictly speaking, cartoons. What recognizable characters they feature don’t take part in any

easily definable action, and figures are usually alone without a space to inhabit.

Bradley doesn’t like using good paper to make his drawings, claiming it would be “like

cheating—to start with something beautiful.” Using cheap materials also means he might

make twenty drawings at a sitting and throw away eighteen with no thought of waste. The

two remaining drawings are often the first attempt and the last, the least self-conscious of

the bunch, done when he’s utterly out of energy. This runs counter to the calligraphic

approach to drawing, which values repetition and muscle memory as means to arrive at the

cleanest and tightest version. For Bradley the best work comes with either freshness or

exhaustion, and getting to either place means feeling some degree of comfort in his

situation.

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Gouache on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Graphite on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Marker on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Charcoal on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Graphite on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Crayon on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2014

Ink on paper


Connecticut

Untitled (gouache robot), 2008

Gouache on paper


Connecticut

Untitled (up), 2008

Ink on paper


Connecticut

Untitled, 2006–07

Acrylic on paper

Collection of Cindy and Liam Tay

Untitled, 2006–07

Gouache on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Gouache on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Pencil on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Gouache on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Acrylic on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Acrylic on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Acrylic on paper


Untitled, 2006–07

Collage


Untitled, 2006–07

Gouache on paper


Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper

Private Collection

Untitled, 2015

Charcoal on paper

Private Collection

Untitled, 2016

Charcoal on paper


Untitled, 2016

Charcoal on paper


Untitled, 2016

Charcoal on paper

Private Collection

Untitled, 2016

Charcoal on paper


Untitled, 2016

Charcoal on paper


Untitled, 2016

Charcoal on paper


Untitled, 2013

Charcoal on paper

Kravis Collection

Untitled, 2016

Graphite on paper


Untitled, 2017

Graphite on paper


Untitled, 2017

Charcoal on paper


Untitled, 2017

Ink on paper


Untitled, 2017

Crayon on paper


Untitled, 2017

Crayon on paper


Untitled, 2017

Crayon on paper


Documents

Joe Bradley - Albright-Knox · The Fisherman’s Friend, 2006 Acrylic on canvas in four parts Collection of Marie Abma and Dike Blair In 2004 Bradley created his first groupings of