All looked pleasant enough near the foot but, like a dramatic plot twist, everything closer to the bed’s head looked war-torn, tortured.
The gizmo he depicts with slapdash but accurate strokes of orange and red is reasonable, yes, but dissolves into the vagaries of emotional weather; it does not add up to the logical structure it pretends to be.
He’s condensed a mall into a theatre set, flattening the rich detail into a sort of Greek chorus to serve the dumb central gun shop.
She has a beautiful hand that is ruled by a fairy, but sometimes a demon gives her a stick to paint with.
The newest paintings convey a lot of those–the lightness that attends letting go, the playfulness and humor that comes when one is attentively waiting, waiting.
The tension between the bodies of mother and child builds up until the moment of physical separation with the delivery of a new entity in the world. Bourgeois depicts that moment using transparent skins of juicy crimson.
There is something about feeling that rightness of a painting when I’m 75 that feels so very satisfying.
Evidence of deconstructing form and then “healing” those breaks was apparent in the yellow and pink adhesive substrates bleeding through the crevasses of incisions.
The alchemy of using a fragment of a scan of parsley to represent a forest was a revelation.
The readmission of artists like Grant Wood into high art discourses may open the door to many more types of representation, inclusive of many more places, lives, and subjectivities.
The woman and man are eternally bound in a psychopathologically perverse interpretation of yin and yang.
One man is found pulling leaves from a stem, as if counting down time. Another man stares longingly at a pile of petals.