Bruce Docker: Utah Desert

I love the desert, but it took some time to develop that sentiment. Only after spending most of my army service in remote sandy areas such as this one, have I learned to accept and eventually like it -- the hard way. Every single tree, every slight variation in the terrain can emancipate from the harsh and relentless monotony of the desert, if only for a few minutes, and I immediately recognized both in this painting, in a nostalgic reminiscence. The weather is the other scourge of this wasteland; penetratingly cold at night and blazing hot during the day, it casts its dwellers from one extreme to another without mercy. The wind fills the eyes with sand. Really, the desert does everything it can to make one hate it, yet one eventually falls prey to its bleak magnitude: it's a mystery. Some of that mystery is caught -- and unraveled -- in this piece.

There is the blue turning white sky, scorched by the invisible sun, a purple, yet paradoxically realistic, as colors indeed mutate in such atmosphere, hill in the distance, and the ground, illustrated by variations of yellow and brown. The green waving tree, which appears to leave a part of itself floating in the air, before consuming it by the crown, is another characteristic touch. The sturdier, flattened tree in the distance, the unclear perspective, folded flat by the light -- these are all stereotypes, which, however, doesn't make them less authentic. I think that the artist demonstrates a deep understanding of the subject by including all of them in this painting, in a crowded, but effective rendering of desert.

So what, and where is the mystery? Well, if you have been reading closely, you must have noticed the "monotony" mentioned in the first paragraph, followed by a list of colors mentioned in the second. There is an obvious incongruity, but there is also a solution. All of these colors indeed appear in the desert, but usually in a much more subdued and modest form, being covered by a layer of sand. The artist intensifies the colors -- removes the sand in what may seem like a replication of a restoration process in art -- and presents us with a cleaner, brighter version. What happens in reality, however, is that a person needs to perform a similar process by themselves, without the aid of a brush. This is a very energy consuming process, which obviously gets abandoned very quickly. Thus the surroundings appear distorted and monotonous from under the patina of sand, while in fact there is a colorful life going on right beneath it. Eventually, though, it beams through the grainy layer -- and works the magic.

The desert is always in a state of transition, its main component, the sand, being highly mobile. It is always moving, but somehow stays the same... before I repeat myself again, I will only say that this understated mobility is a difficult quality to capture in a painting, but that Bruce managed to inject it into his. It is the general atmosphere more than anything else, the air and the light -- the elusive, indefinable things that make this piece effective. The colors work together to convey that atmosphere, but, eventually, a part of it evades clear definition -- much like the desert, this painting keeps at least some of the mystery veiled.

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.

Dee Sanchez: Night Suns

This piece displays two bouquets: one made of the sunflowers and another of the vigorous and cheerful colors. While the blossoms boisterously occupy the center, they themselves become the centerpiece of the color bunch. Together they inspire with vivaciousness and effervescence. Compositionally, perspective also feeds this influx: the artist boldly juxtaposes the fore to the background, making the visual transition effortless and inviting. Consequently, ladders and steps become the leitmotif of this piece. The fence near the bottom resembles the appliance and the gradation of the hills' color, along with the calculated descent (or ascent) suggests a graduated progression.

This is also a very musical piece: the poles of the fence are the fingerboards, the lines are he strings, while the flowers pose as sound holes. The ladder, in turn, can be the xylophone to add some rhythm. This could seem like a strained comparison, but the painting radiates such strong rhythmic waves -- be they of color and geometry -- that eventually they transpose into the realm of sound, at least on the mental level. Accordingly, the blossoms appear to be dancing, gracefully swinging their petals. On a larger scale, the fence resembles a stave, which sinks in between the flowers; figuratively, it is they, and then the hills that play the music the artist conceived in the beginning. This painting is a little animated musical and I can almost anticipate one of the flowers to break in in singing, much like the one in the "Little Shop of Horrors." "Feed me, Seymour!!!" Ahem.

I like how the lines shape a circle inside each petal, forming a kind of a heart. It reminds me of biology lessons in high school, where we used to examine onion cells in a microscope, looking for the nucleus. As I already mentioned, the lines bring with them an incredible variety of biological allusions and insinuations. The colors shimmer, value constantly interchanging -- and the lines delimit each intensification or dilution. It is entertaining to see how a yellow segment is being followed by a darker, and eventually by a nearly orange one. I think that this is how the artist reflects the nightly atmosphere, without showing a single star or the moon. Dee creates a somewhat ideal environment in this painting -- somehow, the last thing I notice (in a deliberate way) is that the two farthest hills are actually blue and red. Perhaps this is what "ideal" really means, when odd and unusual things effortlessly seep into one's mind as ordinary and habitual.

Dee Sanchez: New Mexico Evening

Introduction
Dee Sanchez translates an element of painting, the line, into an element of style. This most basic component of the art becomes a leading force in her artwork, endowing it with primeval energy and sensibility. If usually it is the colors that speak to the viewer (other elements echoing in assent), here it is the lines -- and they sing, in a chorus, sometimes performing a piece on the scale of a Bach's cantata. But perhaps even a more distant comparison is due, that to the rhythmic African drums, as when the lines permeate a painting, they fill it with a repetitive rhythm, which as if arises from the cradle of the civilization rather than from its refined temples. Regardless of one's musical, or painterly tastes, pure rhythm communicates a compelling sensation of initiation and belonging. Dee cultivates that sensation, in what turns out to be an anthropological study as much as works of art.

The lines, though added after color application, form the skeleton of the painting. They construct a foundation, in a reverse process -- something that becomes possible only due to their innate aesthetic supremacy. No matter where the viewer's eyes land, in each painting they will arrive somewhere, as each line will lead to the object it delineates. These lines form a multitude of quasi-labyrinths, from which there is always a way out, as the artist also assumes the ancient role of Ariadne, offering a safe exit in the form of said objects. Similarly to the mythical love story between the princess and Theseus, the artist forges a relationship with the viewer, except it is not of the romantic kind, carrying more of an aesthetic mutual value.

Dee notes when describing her working process that "after each piece is painted, every single shape, color, and shadow is isolated and outlined." A fascinating contrast arises: the most fundamental effects are achieved by the most sophisticated technique. This contrast, as well as the retroactive ink application, denotes stylization as the guiding factor in Dee's artwork; in turn, the latter serves to reaffirm advanced civilization, marking her paintings, though indirectly, as historically and sociologically conscious. But perhaps it is more relevant to focus on what sort of change the mentioned device produces: seemingly "harmless," soft and impressionistic pieces transform into sharp and deliberate paintings, which nevertheless retain the original mildness. Moreover, they attain a unique illustrative quality -- a true generic reincarnation. On top of that, Dee often leaves the decision on whether to incorporate the lines in a piece open for a democratic vote.

Dee Sanchez lives and works in Alameda, New Mexico, USA. She keeps a website and a blog where she publishes her work. You are also invited to visit her page on the Daily Painters Art Gallery.



The lines in this landscape produce a surprising effect: laid on the hills in the background, they reveal their geological stratification in a simulation of a cross section. I think that this feature corresponds with the mythical allusions mentioned in the introduction, though, on a more concrete, scientific level. This is the power of the line: it enables the artist to uncover the history and the process of creation, and the viewer to examine and study it. By making a scientific reference, the painter enriches and diversifies this piece. Interestingly, the vegetation also enjoys this development -- or should I say evolution -- as the lines may be depicting the fibres of the numerous leaves in this painting.

There is a pure visual accordance with the multitude of various interpretative levels and scales. The lines indeed divide everything here, but also connect: Dee appropriately named her technique as "Connected Isolationism." Looking at this painting I imagine a clew; what would happen if I pull the thread and untangle the clew? The artist answers this question at least partially, as every piece is a complete work of art before the lines are drawn. I think it amazing that a true artistic problem can be solved by technological interactive means. All one needs to do is follow the artist's blog and examine the initial painting. However, once the lines are there, the question assumes poignancy again, this time for eternity.

From a painterly viewpoint, the lines emphasize the perspective and join the colors to make this piece an effective landscape. Colors coordinate with each other in a harmony that reaches a peak in the depiction of the sky, where lines were given a rest. Soft, even playful gradation defines the atmosphere. This is a particularly notable characteristic, as the black of the lines quietly dominates this piece; it does not impose itself, however, appropriately delineating the evening mood. And on a final, more humorous note, the observer may indulge in spotting various animals or objects that the lines describe. I found at least three. This painting has a way with children, or with inner children -- depending upon the viewer.

Rick Monzon: Grand Canyon

Such aerial views always lend a soaring feeling of freedom, and power. Transformations of color in the sky, along with monumental mountains instill respect for nature, but also a kind of kinship, of participation in grand changes; the power and grandeur of nature passes on to the viewer. The contrast between blue and orange hues imparts a nostalgic yearning; emphasized by constant color transition as it occurs in real life, the sense of movement is achieved here by the seeming randomness of paint distribution. This is one of the reasons why we love watching sunsets: every change on such a large scale finds a small echo in our private lives. The formula is simple: we compensate for the difference with an emotional response, and hence the nostalgia.

When I first glanced at this painting, I immediately started imagining myself moving around and inspecting the canyon from a high position. The mysterious stripe of orange seems so tempting: "come closer and look at me..." It remained to determine the kind of apparatus I would use, and I picked a hang-glider. No motor noises; rather, a bird-like maneuvering ability, with the wind blowing right in my face, supporting the wings of my flying machine. It makes sense to entrust oneself to the forces of nature when wanting to pay a tribute and marvel at it -- if only in one's fancy. This piece, though representing a single point in time, accumulates a capacity for projecting a temporal progression, largely due to its saturnine lyricism, ensuing, once again, from the blue, white and orange contrasts.

When two elements comprise a landscape -- air and earth in this case -- it is interesting to study the relationship between the two. Do they cooperate in some way, or do they struggle, and fight for supremacy? Here, it seems, the first example qualifies. It is as though the sky invests in the earth, practically all it has -- the intense and epic palette gradually flows downward, inside the canyon -- a safe that concentrates the wealth of color. The clouds form a triangle that points towards the canyon. In turn, the ridges point towards the vertex of that triangle. Together, they appear to be communicating, striving to reach an "understanding," a kind of a common ground. In pictorial terms, this understanding translates into harmony and unity.

There is enough light to oppose the general gloomy atmosphere: it partially negates the darker tones, and reminds of their temporariness. Though the white occupies a relatively small area on the canvas, its concentration makes up for it. The energy matters no less than the territory: just consider the Big Bang theory, with the whole universe expanding from one singular point. The light enlivens this piece, or rather prepares to do so when the time is right, in a few more hours, lurking between the skyline and the clouds. It adds a touch of day to the coming night, varying even more the palette and its effects. Or, perhaps, to the parting night, as it seems that the artist leaves it open for interpretation.

Rick Monzon: Filter

Introduction
Usually I follow a fixed patten when preparing to write a review. I look at some paintings and make notes on predominant characteristics, elements of style, color preferences, brushwork and so on. I brainstorm and write down first impressions. Then, using this data, I try to deduce what the artist seeks to express and what should be the general direction of my interpretation. Finally, I strive to construct a coherent argument and make conclusions about the paintings I examined. But, sometimes, the artwork resists direct analysis. I receive a different kind of inspiration, one that is difficult to put to words -- all I have is a vague sensation that morphs and pulsates inside my head and psyche. Such is the artwork of Rick Monzon.

Rick paints mostly landscapes and suburbia. It is fascinating to observe how the gloomy and troubled palette he uses in the former genre shifts towards the serene and soothing in the latter; darker tones towards the lighter. The artist communicates a complete world view that opposes the precipices of nature to the security of the city. His paintings flow and float, and, to experience them optimally, the best strategy, so it seems, would be to entrust yourself to the artist's world, and simply hop the adventure. Furthermore, in order to fully enjoy Rick's art, one has to let go of the desire for conventional understanding. Not all art was made to be understood; sometimes it is made to be felt, experienced on another level. Here it is the subconscious: his pieces transmit on waves unregistered by standard perception but duly absorbed by what resides under or behind it. They are akin to David Lynch's strange realm, particularly as it was displayed in the film Mulholland Drive, where we witness utopian urban landscapes being shown as the other side of sordid slums -- literal, as well as figurative, those of our psyche and ego.

Eventually, his paintings claim a mind -- following the subconscious -- of their own, and they speak for themselves. And this what I will try to do in my review of his artwork, to let it speak, adding not so much a critique as a commentary, sidenotes and impressions, in an endeavor to uncover the common denominator of the audience and the collective psyche that the artist addresses. Rick Monzon lives in Ojai, California, USA. He is relatively new to the online frequent painting scene, having usually displayed his work in galleries. You are invited to visit his blog and his website.



This painting displays a complex interplay between the light and the trees and the ground that hosts them. The light is filtered by the streaming growth; the result is a series of rhythmically positioned spots that create a pattern of hypnotic quality, aiming to tap into the subconscious. This device is further accentuated by the incredible sense of movement, as every trunk is somehow curved and recurved . It is as if the trees are trying to confuse the viewer, while, in fact, withholding a secret agenda: to force the observer into a somewhat delirious state of perception. At this point I already feel the need to apologize for my probably too serious tone but, following my vow expressed in the introduction, I am merely trying to follow the will of this piece. With this painting, I am a always a step behind, and the sense of uncertainty can be pretty severe.

But not all is harsh. Just as the artist's oeuvre propones a dichotomy of light and dark, this piece contains it on a miniature level. There is a captivating horizontal symmetry: three sections, one entirely green (the bottom), one black (the top), and another one combining these colors (the middle); the two outermost stripes are shown how to deal with in the middle section, where the green tames the black and vice versa. In fact, there are two major areas of color that intersect in the middle, and this arrangement is not at all alien to the Freudian scheme of the ID, the Ego and the SuperEgo. The imposing sense of distortion may imply on how things can go wrong and how difficult it is to retain one's sanity. Indeed, the line "How you suffered for your sanity" from Don McLean's "Vincent" comes to mind.

It is almost possible to see the wind in this piece. This is not a coincidence. The line of trees may be serving an agricultural purpose of blocking winds and hurricanes, to prevent soil movement and loss. It is particularly interesting to see that the wind, in fact, blows in the viewers' direction, practically into our faces. The artist creates an illusion that the trees are trying to protect the audience, forming a hedge between them and the element, dragging observers into a live, powerful experience along the way. The protective intent recurs in other paintings as well, and, it occurs to me that the painter, while violently stirring the hidden parts of the mind, assumes artistic responsibility, and guards the audience from excessive cataclysms. Looking at his art may seem like a risky venture -- but you are in safe hands, and it's a risk worth taking.

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.

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.

Karin Jurick: California Street

I have seen these streets in the movies, and perhaps this is why I chose to review this painting, unable to resist Hollywood's appeal.

Lines dissect the road and heighten the illusion of movement. Everything is in motion, or about to be: the people who cross the road and the cars that maneuver on it. Possibly, the artist implied for the viewers to imagine themselves inside a vehicle too, the frame of the painting being the one of a car's front window as well.

This is an atmospheric piece; it evokes the city's hustle and bustle, it makes noise in the quiet possible way -- through purely visual means. Stylistically, it seems closest to impressionism than any other of the artist's work. In a way, it borrows from a known set of techniques, such as color application and the treatment of light to produce the effect of time's passing and evasiveness.

A crowded urban landscape, this work closes down on the viewer in a stifling embrace. Pollution and loud neighborhoods come to mind the more I look at it. City life is not for everybody, and this depiction may serve well as an ultimatum: love it or leave it. Yet, somehow, it seems, the dwellers of San Francisco learned to reconcile the two opposing sentiments. Perhaps, achieving such harmony became a whole new form of art. I assume that the people who cross that road, mastered it to perfection.