Anthony White is standing in front of an unfinished painting in his Central District studio, considering the nude figure before him.
Around the studio, finished pieces hang near half-done ones. They depict crumpled Dick’s to-go bags, nipples, stickers, iPhones, bendy straws, skateboards, Capri Sun, sunglasses, nail polish, Mike’s Hard Lemonade, Smirnoff Ice, graffiti, and luxurious trash like crumpled Tiffany bags. The surfaces almost look like the local baker had a field day with a sheet cake because of the way the figures are made of fat, methodically laid squiggles of glaringly bright plastic. It’s hard for me to resist the temptation to lean over and lick them with my tongue.
“Do you want one of these?” he asks, holding out a plastic container full of gummy bears and popping a couple in his mouth.
