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.
Their separate egos are hereby erased when the two saints conjoin in an embrace, which echoes the cave behind them, a cosmic hug of sorts, clinching the final humanistic coda of this panel.
Klee presented the grid as a flexible container for ecstatic color.
Hers are the machines that we can’t hold onto, fleeting signs of our human desire to mark which way to go.
Alexa Wilding fluctuates between a confident and seductive nymph, a stiff and unamused model, and a vulnerable damsel awaiting a rescue.
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.
His mane strangely blows forward on a windless night, while his eye appears as a mesmerizing orb that plays off the moon and mandolin.
When I eventually approached the mirror to throw water on my face, I caught a glimpse of Nemesis striding forward in the same direction.
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.