His work absorbs the viewer—they are scenes that can be stepped into, or objects in isolation, hinting at a human presence close by, whether in distance, time, or remembrance. Gaze at his work long enough, and it becomes hard to tell whether the fragments pieces together are Jay’s recollections, your own, or an exchange of the two. An empty field, a leather shoe, an empty glass stained by Alka-Seltzer, are all somehow imbued with life—but whose?

Sullivan has devoted a series of work to his father, twenty years after his death, and through that work finds insight into the relationship between them and the mental struggle. These stunning portraits not only paint a person in what is missing from the scene but start a dialogue. “Over time,” he says, “it became a journey into these objects’ emotional core, unearthing the feelings and memories associated with a black wallet, wingtip shoes, zippo lighter, baseball glove, and many other long-forgotten items.”

Those items have a presence and throw into relief the lack thereof. Jay’s father struggled with bipolar episodes throughout his childhood, which caused rifts within their relationship. Through objects, Sullivan navigates his father’s mental state through the years and gains a better understanding of his own. The first installment in this project is G(love), a photo of a glossy leather baseball glove worn just enough to suggest use, but not worn threadbare, against a solid gray fabric. The glove’s state hints at an abrupt stop in use, and though the background at first seems murky and blank, it suggests the warmth of a thick blanket or coat. It’s easy to project an idea of the man Jay’s father was, and speculate about their past relationship, but the project lives in the present. “I imagined that my father lived with me. I started a journal that recorded the days of our imagined life together: time spent at the beach, the coffee shop, the ball field...The more images I created, the more I remembered; the more I remembered, the more I wanted to be his son again.”

Though there easily could be, there is no judgment lurking within these pieces. The detail captured in each photo seems deliberate, meditative. Through the stillness in the photos themselves, the observer is lulled into their own quiet pause. The experience is like a long conversation—between the artist and his father, the artist, and his own mind, and the artist and the viewer. In Sullivan’s own words, “My art process is first designed to help me understand myself better and, if the resulting art piece is successful, it will create insight into how others can help themselves.” The longer we gaze at the photo, the more we understand, and the more there is to understand.

It’s no mistake that the quiet pause within Sullivan’s art runs countercurrent with the speed of the world in 2021 and the push to be as productive and perfect as possible. He feels deeply about the hustle and the struggle many artists, including himself, have been conditioned to accept as normal, even worthy of reward. “The term ‘struggling artist,’ I think, is as much about emotional struggles as financial ones,” he clarifies, “In the past, I think the art world has glorified struggling artists, creating the expectation that good artists are in some way emotionally damaged.” He acknowledges the importance of self-care, looking to a future in which artists see it as a vital part of the process.

Sullivan rejects the false correlation between mental suffering and good art. He mentions a pivotal experience at a weekend retreat called The Healing Power of Theater, led by playwright Jean Claude Van Italie: “I was about 30 years old at the time and had recently started therapy to understand how my father's bipolar disorder was affecting my adult life. At that workshop, I realized that therapy and healing could be more than therapy sessions. So from then on, I was always looking to see how I could integrate the creative process with traditional therapy.”