Bruce Docker: Sleeping Swan

This image incredibly resembles a coat of arms. All of the attributes are there: an animal of noble connotation in the center and a map-like illustration on the sides, one portraying the land and the other the sea. The yellow and the red islands may symbolize the shipping industry, the merchant and the military fleet. The yellow and the orange stripes may signify farming or roads, that in turn may stand for communication, diplomacy and prosperity. The only thing that is missing is an inscription in Latin. I suppose that the artist's signature can pose a logical substitute (I think I have already shown once how the signature can be extra-meaningful in the need of a textual reference). I suspect that the artist intended for this piece to convey an iconic message: there is something very solemn and dignified about the bird, while the other parts are very schematic, as to not to divert the viewer from the main idea that is supposed to be put across by the swan.

I could play around and try guessing which country or what kind of institution such a coat of arms would suit best. Perhaps research will reveal that some emblems indeed include a swan -- but I don't want to make this extraneous information the point of this review. I feel much more compelled to understand how the artist's style coheres so effortlessly, with the winged addendum, into a representation that differs conceptually -- which means quite significantly -- from the traditional notion of what is a "painting." After some more browsing, it occurred to me that I simply have not payed enough attention to that emblematic, highly stylized facet of Bruce's art; the trees and the clouds exhibit it in particular, and they could be introduced into the above piece without notably changing it.

In more formal terms, it is the shifting towards the abstract that predisposes towards emblematizing. For instance, it is not accidental that early Soviet posters depicted the human figure by using only a few geometrical figures -- borrowing from Malevich, these artists utilized abstraction for pragmatic, propagandistic and ultimately emblematic purposes, incidentally elevating their posters to works of art (a feat ascribed before to Toulouse-Lautrec). Here, the only difference is that Bruce stays within the limits of his own artwork. He reshuffles some of his trademark elements, such as the intricately formed shadows, and puts them in a new context by adding a new feature in the form of the swan. In other words, the artist crossed over to a completely different genre, while remaining loyal to his personal style.

Bruce Docker: At the Base of the Hickory Tree

The sharp contrast between the yellow and the black creates an unexpected effect of collage: the leaves appear as if inlaid into the board, as a foreign body. Correspondingly, the shadows seem to have been cut out from the surface. It only takes a small step to conjure up that the cut out pieces are the leaves, basically relocated from one layer to create another. If this indeed were a collage, the process would denote a clever trick of economy and maximal utilization of available materials. But since it is not, I tend to consider this allusion as a more poetic, inspirational and less controlled method of portraying the play of light and shadow on a small but very saturated floral area. Overall, this might be the artist's painterly version of the "flesh from the flesh" idiom.

The ragged edges of the shadows remind of what appears on a movie screen when the film starts to burn during projection. This resemblance triggers the unusual tension resulting from looking at something that is about to be lost, like a last moment opportunity -- and thus, by invoking yet another art form, the artist conveys the momentariness of the scene, as well as his own passing perception of it, not unlike in impressionism. As a side effect, the heat of the sun, which forms the blinding yellows and whites and consequently the shadows, may be additionally envisioned through the association with the technical trouble of overheating. The power of allusion adds up to that of color. As to the colors, I think it's quite amazing how black, usually assigned auxiliary roles, is employed just as actively as any other hue, becoming an active participant in the unfolding scene.

I have always had faith in extreme close-ups such as this one. They have their own charm, ensuing from the amount of detail concentrated on the very limited space -- the very essence of the presented theme. And though this piece is a miniature both in size and theme, it is not such in the aesthetic implications, which may be rich and vast, and which hold their own when compared to any regular landscape. The seemingly untidy and random composition carries an important and adequately self-important message of the beauty of nature; of how it can be found in almost any surroundings. The untidiness is a superficial camouflage of the well thought-out plan that constitutes this painting. Hence, the artist achieves what may be the primary goal of every painter: to make it look easy what was difficult to accomplish.

Dee Sanchez: Old Window

At the first glance, the window doesn't seem significant enough for the painting to be titled after it. It is mostly covered by the pots, which along with the flowers occupy the center of the piece, and of the attention. But I think that a more allegorical interpretation may remedy this seeming inconsistency: the painting displays a part of a house, where the viewer takes the role of the guest; the window represents the host, while the flowers are the offerings, symbolizing hospitality and welcome. The window becomes the mediator between the viewer and the host, carrying good will -- and scent -- as it invites inside, bearing, symbolically, all the responsibilities of a hospitable owner. Hospitality is still considered a foremost virtue -- and the epithet in the title may indeed allude to this ancient tradition.

The green window-frame plays the role of a secondary painting frame as well. The strong, and rather mysterious emerald color may be reflective of the owner's character. The blue of the window, which blocks the view into the premises, also contributes to the mystery. It is obvious that there is only one side of the involved figure that we are permitted to see: the joyful and the blooming one; coincidentally (or not), the color of the pots is either identical or close to that of the wall -- indeed a single side of the building. It is difficult to determine whether the artist meant for the flowerpots to stick out only in parts, as the lack of shadows and depth of space doesn't allow to make a distinction. Looking closely, it may appear as if some parts of the pots are outside, while others are in -- a probable misjudgement of perspective -- or an intentional mystification -- how much the flowers inside those pots truly represent the character that owns them? Are they merely an adornment, hiding something more sinister?

Most probably not, though it always is interesting to try and guess. And, regardless, the air of mystery stays. I could not fail to notice that the color of the signature is identical to that of the window-frame -- perhaps the artist is trying to tell the viewer something, besides the liking of the hue. Perhaps there are symbolic comparisons to be made between the window and artist's persona. The window is half-open, or half-closed, while the open part is covered by the flower-pots -- we return to the mystery/host allegory mentioned above. The artist lets the viewers know that her art -- the offerings on the window-sill -- represents only one facet of her personality. In a way, this painting may serve as a confession, where the artist reveals that she does not intend to reveal too much. For the viewer, in turn, it will be the invitation card -- in case the power of attraction of the unknown will prove to be irresistible.

Dee Sanchez: Night Church

The warm and nightly atmosphere, along with other elements, is being channeled towards the specific purpose of inducing a positive religious sentiment. The growth around the building cushions it protectively, in a somewhat familial manner; this allegory may serve to remind viewers that going to church can be a unifying family occasion, and that feeling cozy is welcome. This painting conveys a sense of many people being around without actually showing anybody; it almost feels crowded -- yet not a single person is depicted. I think this an achievement of a more of a psychological and universal rather than artistic kind. This piece is occupied with people who are to be imagined by the viewer; it is as if the artist intends the scene to be personalized by the observer, adding characters from their own community.

The color of the church reflects its conceptions aptly: it glows, through value differences, and creates a mysterious air of wonder and anticipation. Specifically, there are two main colors; red, the color of blood and wine, and white, the color of bread. There are three white areas, all of which can serve as a focal point. Perhaps they can be merged into one; roughly, they are all positioned on the same axis -- a single ascending line. The cross at the pinnacle dominates the stars and the dark skies, reminding of several Christian principles at once. In a way, the cross links the earth, through the church, with the heavens, serving as a kind of a conduit -- a pictorial representation of one of the central notions of Christianity.

I like how the artist defines space here: the church is placed on a lofty, but not imposing position. On the one hand, it assumes a kind of reverence and self-sufficiency, while on the other it lures the observer to walk on that path and enter -- a symbolic process rendered through a particular depiction of space. The hills in the background provide rhythmic support and depth. The usual linear device is almost exclusively dedicated to the vegetation. I chose the word "usual" (as it is anything but) because one becomes accustomed to these lines and starts to see beyond them; here, eventually, they become invisible, imperceptibly helping to visualize random growth.

For me, they are no longer a curiosity... but an established device with specific instructive effects -- paradoxically, one needs to "ignore" them in order to figure out their purpose. This peculiarity reminds me of visual riddles, where the guesser needs to defocus while looking at a sheet of paper, in order to make out the shape hidden between the repetitive patterns printed on that sheet. Correspondingly, the artist may be toying with the traditional roles, establishing herself as the riddler, and us, the viewers, as the guessers. Personally, I don't mind being on the uninitiated side -- I like riddles, and painted ones especially.

Dee Sanchez: Clouds Over Taos

The protagonist of this piece is color, while lines, this time in their usual subdued role, are the foil. Due to various effects, palette that could seem overabundant, demonstrates a tasteful, and even austere mix. First, the hot yellow and red in the foreground are counteracted by the cool blue and brown in the background. Second, there is a linear opposition: the hills, which expand horizontally, weigh down the verticals of the bushes. And third, most of the colors concentrate in the lower half of the canvas, the top being almost all white, -- neutral and relaxing. These inner contrasts leave their mark on the observer, making viewing the painting a rather intense experience. Perhaps not intentionally so, but the multiplicity and the versatility of painterly effects burdens this piece with meaningful aesthetic tension.

The motif of levels and steps is continued here: the heads of the bushes form a ladder, as well as the hill lines in the background. It is interesting to notice how elements of individual style recur in what might seem like a completely different painting. The bushes also form a fence, not unlike the one in "Night Suns;" the two farthest hills are red and blue in both paintings and all of the yellows appear in the foreground. Yet these two pieces are entirely different. This is the sign of a master who is in control of her craft: when particular elements reappear in completely different works of art, making it evident that they came out from under the same brush.

However, determining the formal style of this painting may prove to be more difficult. The growth seems distinctly impressionistic, but the hills are quieter than that, and their color may be misleading. Perhaps they are more post-impressionistic, carrying some expressionistic elements -- an improbable combination that works, -- which may lead one to question the benefits of the style-determining practice in the first place. Often, too many specific words will only obscure the actual affect. Instead, the best way to understand and enjoy this piece is simply to move from one step to another, exploring the colors and how they interact. The artist made sure that the viewer will be kept busy for quite some time.

Rick Monzon: Yellow Pears

The unusual arrangement of the pears, which resemble two pieces of a puzzle, sets the tone for this still life. I will avoid dichotomous Yin/Yang preludes, and will simply try to figure out what is going on here. Following the puzzle comparison, the artist tries to achieve a kind of completeness, or perfection, when all the pieces fit in and form a new image. The difference here is that there is no image to be formed, which prompts to look for a meaning instead. Although, there is a basic image involved: an ellipse. I remember reading in William Hogarth' "The Analysis of Beauty," that in order for a perfect face to shine even more, it needs the contrast of a small defect. Here, (though the perfection is of a geometrical kind) we see the defect in the form a the black spot at the back of the higher positioned pear. Clearly, the artist knows what he is doing.

This is an even composition: two fruits and two tails; almost a perfect symmetry between them. It is known that straightforward symmetry (which entails monotony) may appear tiresome to the eye. This painting can be straining despite the beauty spot; Hogarth also claimed that the artist should avoid monotony at all costs (odd compositions are often considered more beautiful). Rick defies hogarthian dogmas, and chooses the more difficult path, but offering a compensation along the way: the circular movement forms something I already mentioned as characteristic to Rick's oeuvre -- a hypnotic pattern that aims at the subconscious. In fact, a degree of monotony is essential for effective hypnosis. Hence the composition assumes an underlying purpose that justifies the repetition -- a purpose that becomes the meaning mentioned above.

This painting mesmerizes. As often happens, when more parts of the mind become involved, following a simple logic, the viewing experience becomes more difficult and intense. This is a heavily loaded piece that asks the viewer's brain to work, offering in return what may be tentatively described as "aesthetic pleasure." Personally, I like complex ideas and paintings that express such ideas. This piece generates friction between itself and the viewer. Interestingly, friction was the first step to the discovery of electricity and, in turn, mesmerism and hypnosis. If you think I just threw a few more unrelated terms into the bag, just think Edgar Poe's "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar," or Marie Shelly's "Frankenstein." The artist does not ask for this piece to endear itself immediately, maybe even trying to repel the casual observer. But, it often happens that things we like right away bore us quickly, while things we don't understand, and are indifferent about, reveal their depth only later on.

Announcement: A Poll on a Change in Reviewing Pattern

Dear Readers and Subscribers,

I have been thinking that maybe it is time to change the reviewing pattern. There are hundreds of frequent/daily painters out there. If I dedicate, for instance, two/three posts to each one (one with a review and a painting, another one or two with a critique of one or two paintings at once) I would be able to feature more artists during the same time period. Perhaps even shift towards other art forms, such as photography and scrapbooks. On the other hand, current pattern would give a more comprehensive overview.

To be honest, I don't know which is better. I like it the way it is, and I would love the new pattern just the same. So I put up a poll (right beneath the title) for you to vote and help me decide. Right now it is open for a week, and maybe I'll keep it running longer, depending on circumstances. I would love to hear your opinions and suggestions on this, or any other issue. Thank you for your cooperation! :)

Carol Marine: Umbrella Flower

The colors, how they combine, and the soaring flower just make this painting so magical and evocative, like a flight of fancy trapped by a frame. The petals resemble butterfly's wings, flapping softly but nervously, as if trying to break free from the material flower, which, in turn, also appears to hover, disconnected from the ground by the lower edge of the piece. This painting is like a pastoral poem, except that paint and canvas substitute ink and paper. Or, perhaps a haiku, a short and condensed poetical image that imparts movement, delicacy and low-key and mysterious intensity in just three lines. Yes, I like this piece. And although there is no indication of whether it is an out or an indoor depiction, I strongly tend towards the former.

The emerald green is stunning. Interestingly, it actually appears in nature but, as the color of sea, not air. I think there is a recurring motif in Carol's work: she extracts and borrows a color that is characteristic of wide planes, such as the sky or the ocean, and transfers it to her next canvas, but with a different purpose -- disposing of other actual components, for instance, ripples or clouds. She detaches and abstracts that particular color from its origin, designating it the role of a reminder, of an actor that carries the power of evocation of something big and powerful. So if the green here reminds of the sea, the question that arises is why, logically, besides providing an surrealistic tinge, the sea takes the place of the sky?

Here the title comes in to fill in the blanks of my interpretation. The flower is compared to an umbrella, an object that protects from water. It alludes to the hydrological cycle, and that eventually the water in the clouds and the ocean is interchangeable -- and so is the meaning of the background. Rain and stormy weather often darken the atmosphere, and the flower may indeed appear to be crumpled by strong wind. Together with the ominous background, the title foreshadows the impending. But this painting also contains a flashback, of a historical and stylistic scope. It is reminiscent of van Gogh's Branch of an Almond Tree in Blossom. Most of all, it resembles it conceptually; same idea, different execution and scale. Though, Carol's palette in this piece may have some van-Goghian elements, of the late and troubled van Gogh in particular -- and, this final evocation, so it seems, will certainly surpass the rest.

Carol Marine: Bulby Dots

The artist plays with colors -- the pink hides behind the blue and the white, winking occasionally at the individual viewer -- provoking a hide and seek game between the audience and the dots. The game progresses, transforming into a kind of a dialogue between the artist and her audience: she hides the paint, and they seek, as the rules become reversed, when many look for a single meaning. Every painting may be viewed as a pictorial transposition of this game, but it is here that the comparison becomes particularly obvious and relevant. This piece becomes a communicative junction between the artist and the audience -- an object that unites and connects the two parties, similarly to the home base in the game.

However, while playing, one tries to outdo the other. When the seeker and the hider arrive to home base simultaneously (I am only familiar with the variant where the former must touch home base after finding the latter), a conflict ensues. Here, on the other hand, both openly steer towards the destination of understanding. An undesirable situation in the game, it is desirable in art -- the rules, once more, become reversed. Still, the common feature of fun remains intact, though I assume that while viewing a painting it can evolve into something more sophisticated. Fun here turns into subtle humor, carefully orchestrated by the painter's brush.

The colors of these bulbs may not seem so exotic if we consider the taste of garlic. The toxic, mischievous pink wonderfully correlates with the bitter taste. Occasional spots that peep out may be warning about the overuse of this vegetable, reminding to put small amounts -- a painterly culinary guide. I think that the polka dots can also imply on garlic's true nature: a leopard cannot change its spots; garlic, even when consumed in small cooked amounts, may cause a foul breath. There is only one way to avoid it: if everybody eats garlic, nobody will notice it. Possibly, garlic is the most democratic of all vegetables. Viva!..

Carol Marine: Red Rose

What is the lifespan of a cut flower? A week, possibly two, with the addition of sugar or some other nourishment. During that time, the flower slowly disintegrates -- and this is what this painting shows, in the making, or the unmaking, to be more accurate. And it does so with a harsh rhythm: I have recently watched an action movie, The Bourne Ultimatum, -- this piece could be aptly categorized as an "action painting;" the interchange of black, red and the shadows between, along with piling up of sharp diagonals, produces effects similar to those created by the shaky camera movements in the film. The petals of this rose project innate continuity and instability and, akin to the seventh art form, they evoke suspense, though of a different kind.

But perhaps there is a more appropriate cinematic comparison -- I keep returning to the camera simply because of how alive and active the flower appears on the canvas. This one is from the Discovery Channel: a sequence of a few seconds, showing in fast forward the blooming and subsequent fading of a single flower. The piece in front of us could be a pictorial representation of frame edited out of the sequence. Impressionism is known to strive to portray motion and transition, but here the result subjects the genre to fast forwarding -- "turbo-impressionism." Once again, it is the injection of features from another style that accelerates this painting: the triangular petals and rectangular brushstrokes strongly allude to cubism.

The rosebud is symmetrical to the jar, a peculiarity that may induce a false sense of harmony. Usually, the vase is much bigger than the flower, so the container in front of us turns out to be surprisingly small. The balance is deceptive here and the blossom conceals a threat -- of tipping over and destroying the composition. Still, there are two features that somehow support it: the first is the wall and the second is the general atmosphere of a quiet room with a single light source, calmly but confidently reflected by the jar -- just a few brushstrokes of white. Perhaps, while pointing these features out, I am merely trying to define that extraordinary suspense, in a hope to resolve it. But the paradox is that it is predestined to remain constant, trapped inside the frame, being the most stable attribute of this piece.

Carol Marine: Four Eights

These orange segments appear to be closer to the mental image, that of the memory and imaginative reconstruction, than to the original, realistic one. We do not see the natural segmentation, or almost any signs of fiber, which should be visible from that distance. Instead, there is the emphasis on strong lines, straight or arched, which enclose overruling any details areas of orange of varying value -- features that denote a geometrical schematic representation -- the first step towards abstraction. The artist's delivery shifts from accurate visual representation of objects towards their mentally processed counterparts. Perhaps, this tendency merely reflects how the artificial cutting into sections overrides the natural division of the fruit. The artist balances on the line that demarcates genres. This painting becomes a generic fusion, with overtones of cubism, fauvism and expressionism.

The colors are a visual feast. They are bright, and even flashy. Yet the artist avoids loudness; I think that the radical viewing angle adds symbolic humility to this piece -- the colors are very self-indulgent, or even self-absorbed, but the viewers are compensated by their lofty position, the literal ability "to look down" upon the scene. On a similar note, the colors may appear to be hiding something, but the aerial view does not let them, providing maximal exposure. If there ever was a need for justification of such angles, this could be it. There is a complex equilibrium between the rich palette and the ascetic perspective, as radical foreshortening tames the colors. This effect contributes the the inner unity that this luminous work projects. Interestingly, the composition plays only a minor role, as if trying not to get in the way of the other players.

A comparison comes to mind: the orange is not far from the color of gold and, considering the title of this painting, the fruit parts may appear to replicate golden pieces of eight. Now that may not seem such a far fetched hypothesis if you recall how coins were checked for authenticity. By teeth -- practically, by taste. However, when you are sailing into a months long pirate campaign, your teeth may all fall out because of scurvy. And the best way to treat it is to consume fresh fruit, especially vitamin C rich citrus fruits, such as oranges. You see, it is all connected... Conclusion: don't sail unprepared. You may end up exchanging all your pieces of eight for a piece of orange. Just like the one depicted here.

Carol Marine: Pitcher & Apple #2

Introduction
During my writing in this blog, I have learned that there are three main groups of still life painters: those who prefer minimal compositions, of one or two items, those who aim for complexity, including as much as ten various objects, and those who are comfortable with any arrangement, a trait that makes them universal and all-round artists. Carol Marine clearly belongs to the third category. Moreover, she is similarly at ease with various known painting styles: her exotic and intense palette echoes expressionism, her loose brushwork pays tribute to impressionism, and the final results often carry a suggestion of fauvism. And yet, what fascinates me the most in her work, is the overwhelming sense of personality. It saturates her paintings and inevitably affects the viewer. All of the influences do not impose themselves upon the artist's expression; Marine absorbed techniques and peculiarities from various traditions and schools, and gives them her own individual interpretation, filtering them through the prism of her own vision. Eventually, her style is very definitive and focused, revealing that the artist knows where she is headed -- even when she tries something new. This may sound strange, but I find something masculine in her work. Again, a universal artist, who can transcend femininity and enrich her paintings with the air of the opposite sex.
Marine often experiments, creating a series of works on a single theme, reminiscent of Monet, albeit on a smaller scale. Objects are frequently depicted directly from above, or from another unusual angle. Another characteristic that distinguishes her style, is the creative approach to backgrounds. These are often painted with an unexpected color, or decorated by a piece of cloth. She is similarly inventive when it comes to ornamental finish, covering entire canvases with polka-dots or other unusual patterns. Additionally, it often seems that a filter covers her pieces: it produces a certain fuzziness, as if the paintings suffer from megascopic pixelization. All of these features add a dimension of surprise to her artwork. It may be an acquired taste, but I find it certainly worth acquiring. In spite of so many subjective qualities, or maybe because of them, the final result turns out to be most objective: fresh and enticing paintings.
Carol Marine lives in Austin, Texas, USA. Besides painting, she also teaches in various workshops. She publishes her work on this website and this blog.

This is a luscious piece, with generously distributed paint. It is not realistic, and it was not intended as such. Looking at these colors, vast oriental palaces, tended by innumerable servants and slaves, come to mind -- the behind the scenes of a tale from One Thousand and One Nights. I have recently read a few tales from the collection, and was surprised about the unruly debauchery described in this medieval Islamic book. The apple can certainly represent the temptation and imply on what is happening onstage.

It is interesting to see how the drapery (or the curtain) starts at the background and gradually flows out to the foreground, capturing a considerable part of it. It becomes both a secondary and a primary actor, providing contrast for the pitcher and the apple -- supporting them, both physically and visually -- and simultaneously exposing wide areas in a somewhat flaunting, playful manner. Initially a device, it has earned the right to be an active member of this still life: "Pitcher & Apple on Cloth." It occupies the whole center of the painting, and its azure tint indeed lets the composition breathe, just as the color implies.

In tune with my previous remarks, I would say that the brushwork here is no less than bohemian. As a result, objects appear to be growing, or expanding. The sense of movement is not compositional, but more particular: the pitch and the apple appear to strive for independence, trying to push each other away. Again, the drapery plays a conciliating role, but I can still tell that the other two don't like each other. Ironically, they generate magnetic tension, which in turn adds a comic element to the painting. The apple indeed replicates the lower part of the pitcher, but in such minute proportions as to further elaborate the comic theme. However, all of these separate meanings do not undermine the general impression; eventually, this canvas is more than the sum of its parts.

Craig Stephens: Candle #2

I think that this piece can be viewed in terms of Yin and Yang, visually as well as conceptually. There are two major areas of contrasting colors, while each one is blemished by the other -- the black wick deep inside the candle and the white spots on the nightly background. Darkness and light, both drawing meaning from each other, they are interdependent, constantly negotiating with each other. It is difficult to avoid simplification and cliche but, for once, we are indeed confronted by a strong black and white image. What is interesting in the above comparison is how Western tradition may be demonstrated not to be that different, in its core, from the Eastern.

This candle ignites a sense of delicate intimacy and warmth, as the soft yellow and white ward off the enclosing darkness. But the intimacy is rather abstract, as we don't know the purpose for which the candle was lit; it travels to the closest subject capable of carrying it -- the viewer -- thus inspiring introspection and self-reflection. In a way, the candle on this canvas sheds light on the observer, and, in a rather complimenting fashion: personally, I get a positive sensation of harmony and self-acceptance. We all have our demons, but this small light does its best to deter and mollify them.

The melted wax is visual treat: an exquisite lateral ballast that exemplifies how laws nature often make the most compelling creations. It is reminiscent of a Gaudi bench; which makes me wonder about the source of his inspiration. It is known that architects (as well as painters) sculpture their models with wax -- perhaps the bench was a chance discovery by the esteemed architect. In similar tone, the whole inside of the candle resembles an amphitheater. Translucency once again becomes a motif; this time, however, the culprit is in the center of our attention. Perhaps, in a kind of tribute, the artist depicts light in one of its purest forms. If one allows for it, the effect can be quite cleansing.

Craig Stephens: Feather

This feather has personality. It reminds me of a willful Pekinese that owns the whole couch while sitting on the edge. It occupies the bare surface with pride and miniature stately gravitas; which is surprising considering its notorious weight. One knows that it can be blown away by the weakest waft, yet somehow it is hard to believe and to accept that fact. Thus this feather invokes an emotional response, empathy, a refreshing crossover for an inanimate object (though perhaps the animate origin plays a role here too) -- and eventually for the artist -- to achieve.

As often happens in minimalistic compositions, a simple, binary decryption ensures probably the most effective viewing experience: feather vs. the background, vs. its own shadow, vs. the chicken; the two colors of the feather, the two different materials that make it up, the soft touch of one vs. the pointy tip of the other, and so on and so forth. This is the basic form of compiling data that later can be used to substantiate allegory and symbolic meanings. In a way, the depicted object resembles a piece of evidence placed on a sterile surface to keep it from being contaminated. And it has already been said that the interpreter's job replicates that of a detective.

So what do we have here, ladies and gentlemen? Exhibit A, a feather collected from a battered chicken (read the witness' report from July 18th), it prompts to ponder the relationship between predators and their prey, and make conclusions about nature's cruel ways. The next step is to consider human efforts to control and redirect animals' rabid instincts, mostly by domestication. However, since human nature itself can be extremely violent, it needs a token of refined culture as a constant restraint: the feather again, a writing instrument during hundreds of years of Western civilization, it symbolizes the arts and their taming effect.

But one doesn't have to drift in the direction of symbolism, and perhaps interpretation is altogether unnecessary. While looking at this painting, I found enjoyment in simply recalling known uses of feathers: native Americans' headgear, filling for pillows, a material used for corporeal punishment, writing instruments (though usually made of geese feathers), currency -- just to mention a few. I think this piece proves how powerful the genre of still-life can be: an accidental found object is revealed to touch so many spheres of human activity and thought simply by being put on canvas. It tickles me to have missed this before.

Craig Stephens: Star Thistles #5

This painting is overpowered by the ambiguous background. It is unclear whether it represents a wall somewhere inside an apartment or the darkness of a starless night outside. Not entirely starless: the two flowers may conveniently replace the absent astronomical bodies, as their name aptly implies. Though the milky surface upon which the bottle stands reflects the soft moonlight, the yellow blossoms are the two brightest objects in this piece, emphasized by the contrasting black behind them. Indeed, they are the stars of this piece.

Which leads me to a furore of another kind: the slender flowers remind me of a ballerina performing a solo dance. If we focus on the events inside the glass, the two stems appear to be walking, taking a step after a graceful step, and perhaps carrying the container with them. The bottle refracts the light, breaking their straight lines; several floating yellow petals denote the presence of water, which further distorts the original image. On top of that, the structure of the stems allows for segmentation and the emergence of knees -- all of these modifications add up to produce an illusion of movement, performed by the elegant legs trapped inside the green bottle.

Out of the glass, the flowers remain static until, if we follow from the bottom and upward, we find the blossoms, two bursts of energy. Actually, such violent outcome would seem unfitting for a ballerina dance. Perhaps a cheerleader should take over: the pompons are already there. After all, there is a prima donna in every dancer, be it on stage or on the grass of a football field. And in this associational spirit, it is impossible to ignore the victorious "V" formed by the stems.

I think that every viewer can find something for themselves in this painting: there is a point of strong tension in the center of the piece, where the bottle and the two flowers meet. It is so distorted, it may even be difficult to make out where each stem goes. On the other hand, there are the two vivacious yellow spots, laying on beds of perky white thorns. And yet still, the bottle green and the black background offer a stolid, calming distraction. Perhaps the artist intended for the viewer to alternate momentum and focus on a different theme with each viewing, or during a single session. It is either that, or you have to be performing an entrechat while observing it -- just like I did.

Craig Stephens: Honey and Cream

Before everything else, this painting demonstrates how a liquid can capture and preserve light. The role of the jar, both in the case of being an art object, and a container of a culinary ingredient, is similar: it conserves the contents (light and honey respectively) and, it mixes them, making the viscid substance appealing to the eye, as well as to the taste. In a way, the jar becomes the epicenter of an active process, artistic for all our purposes. Its placid appearance is misleading, and the lid comes to support that hypothesis: the red color implies on the representational tension occurring down and inside; the apple segment and the creamer's nose, both filtered by the said mix, only add oil to the fire. There is a sense of impending implosion, all the fumes being channeled to the red lid, a valve, which becomes the pictorial counterpoint of this piece.

But this is a three-way composition: the creamer further stabilizes it, providing a soothing outlet. Its neutral color, the color of all colors, becomes the white flag that suppresses the heat, in compositional, as well as in physical-optical terms. We do no see the cream, but the promise of it adds to the sense of balance. Appropriately, it is not the milk that gets spilled here: we can see how the golden light travels further to invade the shadow and become a part of it. A rare battle is without losses; the canvas becomes the land of milk and honey, and I should know...

The combination of two seemingly separate spheres of perception, the taste and the vision, is not incidental. It is well known that presentation is a key component in gastronomy; arranging a serving to appear appetizing demands an artistry immensely valued by connoisseurs. After the aroma, composition and color play the next in importance part in achieving a mouth-watering result. Both visual constituents, much like in painting, they target the aesthetic sense of the consumer. Consequently, this particular choice of subject matter, and its treatment, could be seen as a nod to the restaurant industry and the art of cooking. You know what -- and the art of eating, too.

Craig Stephens: Green Grapes

Introduction
Craig Stephens paints mainly still life, often in dark, cool hues. The two most remarkable features in his artwork are the treatment of light and the brushwork. Sometimes, they coincide. His subjects filter the light, which manifests through degrees of transparency and translucency -- but rarely in a pure, pristine form. This quality is best demonstrated in the many depictions of glass and liquids, where he explores effects of refraction and reflection. Sometimes I get the impression that he uses a flashlight to illumine his models. It is as if they are covered by a thick drapery, which he removes for just a second, to point the small focused lamp on the uncovered object and expose it, only to return the veil right after. I would go as far as suggesting the child reading or playing under a blanket allegory, if it wasn't for that sombre, classic mood that permeates Stephen's art. Back to the lighting, the ensuing effect renders the subjects especially precious, fragile and even vulnerable. The general impression is of being let into a secret nook -- where the paintings divulge secrets (they whisper), and where they become secrets. Some of those are innocuous, while others may be sarcastic, and even subversive.

His peculiar brushwork bends the light even further: when it does not pass through, it mixes with the color it falls upon, producing a foggy surface. Due to these evolutions, which absorb most of the light, Stephen's work inevitably gravitates towards the darker tones of the color spectrum. But his brushwork deserves an account on its own merit. It appears that the artist sculpts with the instrument; not by erecting dramatic impasto, but by a more subtle, and even application. He manipulates texture: paint protrudes, and interacts with the canvas -- a stylistic device of micro-sculpting with the substance. Perhaps as a result, various still life appear to be carved out of stone: this could sound as a reprimand, but, not so when the effect is consistent, and obviously deliberate; when it is a part of the artist's vision. Interestingly, allusions to other art forms are also not alien to Stephen's art, as I will try to show in future posts. Sometimes it takes time to accumulate enough visual data to make inferences regarding the painter's style. But here the whole oeuvre appears to be slightly off the axis of the generally accepted pictorial trend, reducing the recognition time to a minimum. This, by itself, is an achievement. Craig Stephens lives in Northern California. He keeps a website and a blog.

Here the brush not only paints, it also takes the role of a chisel -- precisely because the subject is a real fruit. The grapes appear to be made of stone, a semiprecious stone to be more accurate. I find jade to be a probable candidate. The artist mixes the light's white with the green of the berries, so that each color gradates into another, with different levels of sharpness. As a result, he manages to convey various light effects: the grapes positioned closer to the left part of the canvas appear translucent, while those on the right display a deeper green, sometimes nearing black. At the lower part of the canvas, white is interlaced with black and brown, also producing a complex surface.

This painting provides a series of variations on the theme of a single grape: each one is depicted from a different angle, under varying light. In turn, the series can be divided into groups that demonstrate certain commonalities. This grouping serves to remind that the bunch in front of us was also only a part, of a bigger bunch, -- but in the outside world, before the artist intervened. A corresponding aspect touches the process of consuming grapes: I have actually witnessed people trying to keep the bunch's structure intact as they pick out a grape after a grape. Sometimes that demanded tearing out a small cluster, which they would place into their mouth and chew upon gluttonously. Okay, I admit that it was me.

Despite the stony appearance, the bunch seems almost weightless; there is something ethereal in its presence. There are two clearly visible points of contact, while the third is either invisible, covered by the subject itself, or, is concealed by its shadow. In any case, the grapes appear to hover. To my mind, this feature strongly alludes to the taste of the fruit: light and sweet. Consequently, it also reinstates its floral origin, which may have become compromised due to the overwhelming resemblances discussed earlier. In many ways, this painting epitomizes the artist's style. While the black background tends to the classic atmosphere created by the sculptural subject, the latter retains its sweetness due to various pictorial effects. And if this begins to sound too much like a wine description -- perhaps it should.

Mick McGinty: Citrus on Tile

This, in a way, is a tamed version of the Sliced Tomato. The fruits are intact, the droplets are of water, and the surface consists of clean, sterile kitchen tiles. Being so different by way of contrast, this painting also sheds the symbolism: it radiates spontaneity. As often happens in such cases, the effect is disarming and endearing. I have often wondered how artists make their still life so -- well, simply put, -- how they make it so cute, triggering human affection, which usually is directed towards the animate, for instance, pets.

I think that every interpreter harbors a subconscious drive to personify and assign human activities to depicted still objects. In this case, the two lemons snuggle up together: for comfort, or fear of the proceedings, or to gossip on that lonely orange, all bright and stuck-up. This is one of the strengths of the visual arts, to enliven a fruit or a vegetable and raise it to the level of a soul possessing object. The genre speaks for itself: there is the "still," but then, there is also the "life." Perhaps the goal of every painter is to understate the former and to bring out the latter.

By placing the fruit in the kitchen, while leaving out any tools or containers, the artist once again evades a clear sub-generic categorization. This is neither a decorative, nor an obvious practical setting. Possibly, the lemons and the orange have been washed to be further transferred to a living room crystal bowl -- but, possibly, they are to be eaten right away. By keeping the viewer guessing, the artist reminds us that individual objects can be enjoyed visually regardless of the scenery. He invests into mobility within the genre, and thus reflects real world dynamics and its infinite possibilities. It is always interesting to know what happens just before of whatever happens. In a way, the artist manipulates time just as he manipulates space.

This piece speaks geometry. The surface is divided into squares, while the oval citruses form a triangle. Realistic delivery and simple, but effective composition, in the traditional pyramid form, allow for a calm first impression. But, as in other McGinty's paintings, the initial reaction might not be the most revealing. And it is the basic pictorial device of varying geometrical forms that secures meaningful consequent viewings. Ultimately, the artist targets the audience's artistic and imaginative faculties, requiring active viewing. I admire this kind of talent: the one that brings out the talents of other people.

Mick McGinty: Slopes of Grand Teton

My problem with landscapes has always been their inescapable partiality: no matter how wide are the perspectives, eventually the frame always cuts the view. Yes, it is a self-evident limitation but, I am still having hard time getting over it, and probably never will. This kind of perception has become ingrained in my visual and essentially mental assimilation of landscapes. In a way, the incompleteness has become a part of my aesthetic belief system; there always will be a sudden stop, a violent stop that goes against the three dimensional constant flow we usually witness. Consequently, I have developed a criterion as to what makes a landscape most enjoyable: the more the artist manages to subdue the finiteness, by absorbing the viewer into what happens within the given limits, the more the landscape turns engrossing and successful. If the painting appears to ignore its own limits, and takes a life of its own -- this is when it becomes good art. But enough theorizing.

This is a rich, three level depiction. Rocky slopes populate the foreground, a line of evergreens descends in the center and another one, a parallel, is visible in the background. To balance the strong diagonals, there is a large gnarled tree trunk, accompanied by a smaller one, both taming the composition. They also provide a mental point of rest: every upright tree may meet its demise and end up like the one in the foreground. Interestingly, these two trees are colored almost identically to the stones, perhaps referring to ancient eras, when fossilizing was just beginning to occur. Back to our times, by such correlation of palette, the artist may be alluding to human interference with nature -- the mining industry -- which takes advantage of those fossils.

The accepted norm of viewing a painting is from left to right, which should have been reflected in my choice of words: "ascending" rather than "descending." However, the general sense of downward movement is so powerful here, that the the latter verb seems much more appropriate for the adequate description of this scenery. The artist forces an inversion of the accepted viewing norm, he commits a "break;" notably, this break (paradoxically) deals with precisely the subject I mentioned in the first paragraph: the frame boundaries. These are not to be considered in the regular sedating left to right fashion, but in a more experimental opposite direction. This counter intuitive quality grips the observer. Ultimately, the viewer will return to the more conventional left to right pattern, which will result in at least double the time of overall examination. Thus the artist accomplishes the goal of absorbing people with what goes between the frames rather than with the frames themselves. He makes them work for his idiosyncratic purposes rather than allowing them to establish an independent meaning. Hence he prolongs the enjoyment, and increases its value.

*Click on the image to get a wider resolution

Mick McGinty: Woodpile With Wildflowers

An idyllic scene is captured on the canvas. It tempts the viewer with the magical bright light and the colorful unconstrained growth. Or so it seems: the logs certainly indicate a constraint imposed on the forest flora. The artist does not judge; he seems to keep to the role of the observer, and consequently offers his observation to the people. However, by avoiding judgment himself, he elicits it from the viewer -- possibly a conscious downplaying strategy that schemes to make the viewer (an urban homo sapiens) ponder a future ecological disaster, if only by juxtaposing the painted luxuriance with the rarity of occasions of actually witnessing it.

But there are more evident ambiguities to consider, and to interpret. The disposition of the logs near a growing tree may imply deforestation on the one hand, but, a moderate, controlled cutting that would benefit the forest on the other. This dichotomy is emphasized by the erection the logs construct: it is unclear whether it is a stable or a shaky structure. Perhaps a single slight push will start a rolling chain reaction -- causing uncontrollable destruction, -- or, the wood will remain immovable, -- rendering the cutting a contained micro damage, done for the greater good.

Perhaps, this is not an idyll. This painting may serve better as a warning, of either a utopia, or a dystopia. The problem is that humans can hardly deal with both. Considering the dynamics of the composition, with the flowers populating the foreground, and the neatly stacked logs delineating a smooth slope, I imagine that the artist tends towards the more optimistic outcome, if only tentatively. The light breaks the black hues in the background, generously washing the forest: if only things were more simple, and we could just relish nature without any politics involved! And so, we are at the outset again -- the artist doesn't judge. But it is too easy to forget that this is not his prerogative. Sometimes, it is nice to waiver that important right, if only for a few minutes, and simply enjoy the scenery.