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.
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.