Raoul Middleman, Recent sketch The Pandemic has shut down museums and for the time being we've lost that kind of first hand visceral experience we get looking at art. I already miss the oomph and goop of oil paint escaping from the pores of the canvas: brushed,...
I thought of the Intimists… and how they make ordinary objects, including cats, absolutely transcendent.
I have everything I need, except the lodestar that has gotten me this far, in a life that has revolved around art.
These two artists represent my dilemma: private vs. public, personal vs. political.
I never felt in isolation; there was a life I needed to address.
It was intended as an exploration of nostalgia, to create a conversation across many different types of loss.
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.
You experience the light through cumulus night clouds that gather then disperse within minutes, light ricocheting in groves of trees.
This is a portrait of a culture in the late stages of psychic rot.
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.