John Crowther

John Crowther

Critic

Remarkably, Dennis Kirby’s Hudson River Highlands maintains a degree of flatness while simultaneously establishing a powerful sense of depth. As an appreciator of painting, who has never attempted to pick up a brush in earnest (I wish I could, but sadly my artistic skills lie elsewhere), I cannot pinpoint precisely where the flatness derives. However, I can make some guesses: the blue hues describing the mountain are rich but sufficiently subdued and uniform that they reject some measure of three-dimensionality. On the other hand, the foreground noticeably recedes into the distance with attention to detail and a variety of form that evokes depth and space. All brought together with a beautiful crown of clouds visually in between the two states described above, Hudson River Highlands is an impressive and original landscape painting.

Lordrra’s Blue Veins are snaking acrylic evocations of anatomy and topography. An unlikely marriage of restraint of tone and form with an allover complexity told in rich hues provides the picture with a delicate yet commanding presence.

The present work’s subject is open to interpretation and not directly prescribed by the artist. The eponymous blue veins described in the work could be the avenues of life, pumping blood through our bodies until it spills out in some unhappy accident and turns disturbingly red. Alternatively, they could be their global equivalent: meandering rivers and streams crisscrossing our planet. Both possibilities (there are many more, to be sure) share a common function: life. They are the literal and figurative lifeblood of the world from which all things stem—tiny, beautiful, and indispensable veins of blue.

Do we have one unified self, or are we a conglomeration of various and often competing selves? How do our alternative selves influence our behavior if the latter proves correct? Thomas Blood’s Alter Ego considers this question through a surrealist lens (probably the most pertinent artistic movement to explore the unconscious).

The question of a dual self (or even a plural self) is at the heart of the millennia-old debate over free will. Most people do not take kindly to being told they don't have free will (myself included). Conversely, the absence of free will can provide comfort in certain situations. Many, if not most people (one would hope), do not blame a kidnap victim for their imprisonment. However, diehard advocates of free will occasionally fall back on (in my opinion, a disgusting belief) the line of reasoning, "well, they chose to walk there at night, and they knew something bad might happen, yet they chose to do it anyway.” I find this appalling because blaming the victim for the perpetrator's crimes is fundamentally wrong. But I slightly digress; the question remains, do we make our own choices?

I have a pitiful grasp of neuroscience, but from what I understand, most of our decisions originate in our unconscious before traveling to our conscious, thus, creating the illusion we are formulating the thoughts. Whether this is true or not (please correct me if I’m wrong), it would seem to me that unconscious or no, the decisions come from our minds. The little doppelganger stiffly standing atop the subject’s bowler hat is that alter ego, that subconscious director, the secret self.

Wild and wonderful squiggles and washes of acrylic cascade down the surface of Yuan Chen’s Square with #4. These painterly, Joan Mitchell-like expressions are complicated and complimented by loosely geometric black lines that offer an alternative to the waterfall of kaleidoscopic color and the fanciful swirling spindly black lines that make up the rest of the canvas. They serve almost as a highlighter for the warm colors they overlay (so, kind of the opposite of a highlighter, I guess). The marked absence of geometric forms and the rich tonal patchwork would be beautiful in their own right, but the hints of hard-edged lines bring out the joy inherent in the composition.

With echoes of Joseph Albers and Frank Stella, Robert Petrick’s "Coincidence" is a beautifully executed meditation on color and form. The palette is ambitious and daring. Petrick does not choose a conventional and accessible array of tones but instead a challenging and unique combination of colors that would almost surely result in an unsuccessful canvas in the hands of a less experienced painter. Petrick achieves this alchemy with his virtuoso navigation of form and balance. On paper, the idea of a light and yellowy green (lime?) foreground partially overlaid with a block of even yellowier green is unappealing to me. Still, in person, the combination is not only successful but positively beautiful. This green-on-green section is expressed with a delicate and quietly attention-grabbing air that grounds and informs the rest of the painting.

Laurie McClure’s Untitled is a deceptive work. McClure’s tonal restraint is belied by her allover and beautifully wild applications of paint. At first glance (or at least to my untrained eye), Untitled appears entirely and uncompromisingly abstract. However, as one continues to gaze, it becomes clear that the painting is at least as figurative as abstract (if not more so). One can easily become lost in the veritable whirlwind of gesture, thick impasto, and scions of acrylic intersected by uncompromising pastel and charcoal passages. So easily, in fact, that one can initially fail to notice that the entire painting is composed of faces of animals, monsters, and people.

From Abstract Expressionism to Bosch in a matter of seconds, the canvas is transformed into a hellish mass of tangled limbs and faces consuming each other in a Dante-like frenzy.

Defined by a happy dichotomy between subdued hues and exuberant gestures, Gina Werfel’s Flourish is a virtuoso abstract work. An economy of means and an embarrassment of riches do not collide or even co-exist in the present work but, instead, become one. Even “become” in this context is misleading because Flourish’s joyous and enigmatic outpour of emotion-evoking paint appears unified since inception. Despite appearances, Flourish is less about how opposites attract and more about how opposites might not have been opposite in the first place.

I have implied Flourish is a celebratory and happy work, even more subjective than my usual screeds. I use this language not to describe the mood of the painting (like most of the best paintings, it could be dismal or happy) but to try and articulate the splendid way Flourish’s exuberant brushwork blends with its restrained palette.

In Beach 1, Simone Scholes highlights a different aspect of the beach. The beach is majestic, beautiful, and enchanting, but so are the people enjoying it. Our excitement about going to the beach, taking a tropical vacation does not stem simply from our love of the ocean, but from the lifestyle, glamour, and sexiness it entails. No one wants a crowded beach, and since we so often find ourselves on one, there is a certain longing for an empty expanse of sea and sand all to ourselves. However, if this were all we had, the beach would be less alluring. It is one, if not the only place, where most people feel comfortable being next-to-naked around a hoard of strangers. It is a place where we can escape certain societal expectations of propriety (obviously, there's a limit, don't get carried away!), our everyday concerns, and the often-stifling weight of the world. Beach 1 celebrates this chic and irresistible nature of seaside leisure. And so should we. 

I’d tell you to buy the painting, but someone already did.   

In Stone Beach Rocks, Kristen Olson takes a contemplative approach to the beach. She captures the rolling waves, the intensity of their imminent collision with the rocks and shoreline, and the liberating excitement of their constant yet chaotic ebbs and flows in rich impasto that bursts forth from the canvas like the swells crashing on the rocks. This thick application of pigment provides a pleasing three-dimensionality to the canvas and brings the viewer closer to the tactile nature of the beach. Through the layers of paint, we can feel the sand between our toes, the waves lap at our feet, and the feeling of salty aquatic winds against our face. The painterly balance between precision and gesture and what is seen and felt allows a fixed and unmoving image to convey motion and emotion. There is no shortage of landscape paintings, so the buyer must choose wisely. Olson achieves what makes a landscape painting great: the ability to transcend the static nature of the medium and bring motion out of motionlessness.

Steven Curtis’s The Empty Plaza is empathetic, melancholic, and provoking. The elderly are often cursed with loneliness. The departure of children, the death of a partner and friends leave many of our elders alone in an increasingly unrecognizable world. Hunched over under the weight of time and circumstance, they maintain a routine, have fleeting and generic interactions with strangers, and hopefully a phone call now and then, but for the most part, their existence is solitary. Of course, recent events have made the elderly even more vulnerable and isolated, but, as evidenced in The Empty Plaza, this state of affairs is an old one. The desolate plaza highlights the communal void experienced by the aging members of society. It gives us a renewed sense of empathy and love for those who continue to live when all they know has died.

There is an intimate tenderness to Devon Sharon’s Going Out. It holds a certain universality that is difficult to put into words but easy to feel. In some ways, it is specific to the female experience. The weight of societal expectations weighs heavily on women and is often manifested in critiques of their appearance. I do not think a man can fully comprehend the conscious and unconscious calculations women experience when they dress for the world. Still, the action and social anxieties it entails are widely relatable. So much of our lives consists of the little quotidian actions and decisions we make alone. However solitary these actions may feel, they are usually (for better or for worse) inextricably tied up with the presence and expectations of others. Even our most personal and habitual decisions are frequently informed by the opinions of individuals or society and culture. While this is by no means always a good thing, it does remind us of the impossibility of total withdrawal. No matter how isolated and reclusive we become, we cannot escape the conceits of others.

I am deeply touched by the promise and melancholy of this painting.

Joy Parks Coats’ Sunflowers and Puddles portrays a pastoral scene in masterful brushstrokes that beautifully captures the sun's radiance, flora, blue skies presiding over the vista and reflected in the brilliantly rendered puddles. From the rich yellows of the sunflowers to the still waters flooding the path, a lovely and emotions-provoking picture unfolds and brings the viewer back to days spent in the sun surrounded by brilliant green and oceans of flowers. You don't even need to have experienced such a scene to get the full emotional impact of the painting; it so perfectly captures an archetypal sense of blooming life and luscious summer days that even someone who has only known winter would relate to the work as one accustomed to sunflower strewn landscapes. Comforting, calming, and unobjectionably beautiful, Sunflowers and Puddles breathes life into any room.

Melissa Hefferlin’s Lemon Squares, III is a delightfully vibrant still-life that saturates the viewer in warm colors without overwhelming the senses. Near-photorealist figuration set against abstraction, the work is brimming with life, summer, and sunlight. The deep yellows of the lemons feel like a reflection of the sun that casts their shadow across the kaleidoscopic textile. The fabric's warm oranges, reds, and yellows further bring out this sense of summer and life, as do the rich greens of the leaves and their turquoise and green textile counterparts. The design of the textile itself recalls nature and organic forms. The yellow and orange curving lines in the lower center flow like ocean waves or the unseen undulations of gentle breezes. Rich in color and form Lemon Squares, III brings bucolic summer into even the coldest homes.

Joy Parks Coats’ Clouds Illusions captures a daytime reverie where the earth and sky come together. The waves lapping the smooth shore turn the sand into a mirror that, in turn, becomes the canvas onto which the enigmatic sky ephemerally inscribes itself. Coats then continues and brings permanence to this fleeting moment of beauty by capturing its nebulous contours in soft passages of acrylic. So much of the present work is about the transitory spectacles that go unnoticed unless one can refocus their attention from the loud (both auditorily and visually) to the quiet. We cannot live in this immediate and undisturbed state for most of our lives, or we will quickly get hit by a bus. Clouds Illusions reminds us to immerse ourselves in the peaceful happenings of the world when the opportunity presents itself. 

Amy Webb’s Night Glow describes a state of being between the world's chaos and restfulness of repose.

Escaping one's racing thoughts and submerging oneself in the little details of reality is often ridiculously difficult. There is magic in the mundane; the fleeting shades that dance across our rooms, floating specks of dust illuminated by shafts of sunlight, the warm outer edges of a flickering candle's glow. These tiny occurrences play out before our eyes daily and feel inconsequential because they are, but beauty does not derive from the consequential. We do not need to seek out stunning vistas or grand architecture to find visual wonder. Sometimes, we can simply sit in our beds and watch the ephemeral dramas of light, shadow, and shape that go unnoticed or unappreciated unless we take the time to let ourselves sink into the deceptively insignificant wonders of our world.

Teresa Selbee Baker’s Remember addresses so many aspects of the human condition that anything I write will be woefully insufficient. But I love the work and will do my best to access some of its monumental scope.

The intricacy of its construction mirrors that of its subject matter. Our memories shape us. Moments, some dramatic and others seemingly inconsequential, form the tapestry of self, a fluid patchwork of experience that determines who we are and how we live. We all have memories we wish we could forget and others we wish we could remember more clearly, but good or bad the past is always present.

We often think of time as a linear line. However, time is not a tree that grows in a straight trajectory but a weblike root system that shoots out in all directions. Like the superimposed and layered images of Remember, past, present, and future all overlap and occur simultaneously. History does not exist in a vacuum; it constantly informs the present and future without end or respite.

The linear nature of the tree in Remember is subverted by the living memories projected upon it as if to prove the past remains and will always color the present.

The effect of Uzo’s Stay is visceral. I cannot speak for the personal motivations or opinions of the artist, but I can communicate something of how Stay spoke to my experience.

Death is an inexorable fact of life. Reminders of its inevitability confront us at every turn, and we learn to compartmentalize and accept its unbreakable promise. We must find a way to free ourselves from the fear of our shared fate, or we will sacrifice the life we are terrified of losing. Particularly in the confidence of youth, it is easiest to resist the anxiety of one’s eventual passing. In the absence of immediate personal danger, death most effectively locks us in a prison of fear and despair when a loved one is dying or dead. We can accept our inability to prevent our future demise far more easily than that of someone important to us.

When my grandmother died of cancer, I was racked with pain and sadness I had never experienced. With time I have come to peace with her absence and learned to celebrate her life more than mourn her death. Over the past six days, I have learned that this lesson is not permanent. Late Thursday afternoon, my father was diagnosed with a deadly terminal disease, the fear of which completely consumed every facet of my life until a few hours ago when we got the news it was a misdiagnosis. If my father had died, the only path forward would be adopting Uzo’s perspective: “learning to live again.” Because the passing of a loved one will stay, as much as one wanted them to stay, the only way to honor their departure and make your stay meaningful is to embrace life. Otherwise, existence becomes living death, and the story ends well before the last word is written.  

Since this critique is on a work that deals with a delicate subject, I would like to reaffirm that the following is my interpretation.

Ocean’s Panic is a nuanced portrait of addiction. I come from a family of addicts. My vice is nicotine, and I continue to battle with it. The vast majority of people caught in the often soul-crushing and life-destroying cycle of addiction are aware of their dependency’s destructive nature. Anyone who has experienced addiction (whether it be to chocolate or drugs) knows about the constant internal turmoil it creates. Addicts are torn between knowing they are locked in a self-destructive pattern and excuses for that pattern. I cannot tell you how often I have picked up a cigarette to combat anxiety about being addicted to cigarettes. This is irrational to the extreme, and understanding the illogic and continuing to dive further into it leads to a surreal existence. It feels as if one lives in an alternative reality where one's mind is fractured into a thousand contradictions that begin to resemble the state of frenzy reflected in Panic's protagonist's bulging eyes and discombobulated face.

Panic perfectly describes the state of advanced addiction. A maelstrom of fear, lack of control, self-hatred, and regret wear away at the soul and fill one with a sense of dread that can only be dispelled in the short term by a retreat into the pattern of behavior from which it originated. Of course, this self-perpetuating cycle of misery can only be broken by uncompromising rejection of its causes, but this is easier said than done. The chaos of Panic’s subject is the inevitable and deadly result of addiction, but the self-awareness it displays is the hope of a better tomorrow.

Marlene Llanes’ An Invitation (surreal blue landscape with chair and cloud) unites interior and exterior spaces. The dichotomy between indoors and outdoors in art is more important than one might think. The closed intimacy of interiors is the home of portraits, still lifes, and scenes of love, betrayal, leisure, and human intimacy. The expansive hills and valleys of exterior environments are the terrain of landscapes, nature studies, and organic forms vying for place with human-made structures. The marriage of these two diametrically opposed environments is the peak of surrealism.

At its core, surrealism is about incongruity. A headlong dive into the impossible expressed as normalcy. The viewer is presented with an image that looks real but is clearly fictitious. This is the first and perhaps foremost means by which surrealism establishes its presence. The viewer is immediately thrown into a state of contradiction where fantasy and reality bleed into each other like the sky reflected in An Invitation (surreal blue landscape with chair and cloud)’s impossible window. Famously, surrealism is built from dreams. Artworks inspired by artists' nocturnal adventures bring dreams into reality and merge fantasy and realism. Usually, reality bleeds into dreams, but surrealism drags dreams out of the internal theater of the mind and into the exterior world. Nightmares and daydreams walk backward to creation and thus establish an experience that is surreal from its very inception. In these ways, the wedding of the interior and exterior is not simply a surrealist trope but a metaphor for the entire movement and what it seeks to accomplish.

Expertly wrought gradations of reds, oranges, and yellows move their way up and across Judith Skillman’s Heat Dome. The bars of color do not act independently of each other but, instead, coalesce into a united whole. The painting is defined by a loose and gestural approach to a defined structure. Heat Dome is not an Abstract Expressionist flurry of gestures, yet Skillman’s mark-making is not overly restrained by the grid grounding the painting. She loosely adheres to the self-imposed geometry of the background with free and expressive brushwork that does not descend into painterly anarchy. The colors work in unison by a mutual allegiance to form, creating cohesion and direction in the composition.

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