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The platter served on matters, canvas tends to absorb any spillage of material suggestiveness, but poured onto pleather paint flourishes in its implication: painters are smearing their own oily expelleds. Like graffiti's intestinal signatures defecating their authorial, artworks that we conceptually digest while our stomachs do the same. Looking at art doesn't work if you have to take a piss, its magic is ruined by a heavy bag, so that when you try conceptualize art with your head you're still reminded of your bowel held waste, the brown rope tethering us to earth that Eichwald seems to consistently paint.
see too: John Miller at Barbara Weiss, Nicolas Deshayes at Modern Art