I have been painting portraits from obituaries on poured plaster/acrylic plaques since the pandemic began.
While googling ‘how to fertilize tree peonies and will they grow in the shade’ I for a minute linger on the Washington Post main page and get enough in two seconds to know the world is bad.
I felt the awkward little girl in me stirring, a sense of vulnerability recognized and transformed into a different kind of power by this painting.
Imagine if de Kooning and Matisse painted a landscape together, and maybe Bonnard was their professor/mentor? That’s ya boi Kimura.
Overall there was chaos in his figure, strokes sometimes lining up with the form, and sometimes going against the logic of the body.
Entering the studio with “Justin” was an unforgettable kind of magic, like passing through a Super Nintendo game portal where the colors and the physics forever change.
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.