Previous Shows: 2013: States of Being: Jennifer Wynne Reeves
They step out of my paintings to be sculptures who step into photographs. They don’t know where they want to live, or they do, maybe, everywhere at once, depending. Yes, I think we are that free. The hoary horizon rolls out the red carpet for a motley crew like us: sadists, longhorns and gnats suspended in amber. We’re cut loose in the frost to be the great ones we are—ragtag musicians playing a mum melody too radical to be hummed.
DeKooning’s smears of color wink like glimpses of moving flesh in the throes of passion; eyelids open and close, back-and-forth motions slow down, speed up. Sensibly abstract, increasingly blurred, the action becomes less and less physical. Orgasm arrives when the mind finally lets go of its grip on the body, its imprisonment in matter, its resistance to art, until the painting is completely open-ended. A spirit-ward cum is delivered. I walk away from the picture on the wall, my heart seeded.