I'm in two shows this summer in NY. The first is at my gallery, Nancy Margolis. It's a show loosely around the theme of flowers. I have this painting above, the one below and a couple others in the show. Other artists include Kathleen Craig, Xico Greenwald, Gail Spaien and Anna Valdez. I'm thrilled to see it and meet some of the other painters, the opening is Thursday June 13, 6-8pm. Exhibition Catalogue
The other show is called About Face organized by Patricia Spergel and Director Shazzi Thomas at the Painting Center. Its a big show with work from Dasha Bazanova, Jeff Bliumis, Alexandra Rutsch Brock, Deborah Brown, Pam Butler, Susanna Coffey, Kyle Coniglio, Donna Festa, Kyle Hackett, Ryan Michael Ford, Barbara Friedman, Lavaughan Jenkins, Catherine Kehoe, Aubrey Levinthal, and Elise Siegel. That one opens Thursday June 20th 6-8pm. Exhibition Catalogue
I'll grab some install photos when I am up for these shows. Please come!
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| For K.R., 2019, Oil on Panel, 11.5 x 11.75 inches |
P.S. -- The painting above, For K.R., is for Kay Ryan, the poet. I have tried a few times to make a painting in response to my favorite poem, The Light of Interiors. I so want to capture that delicate, simple island of flowers with no gravity but so much past she writes of. Here is her exquisite poem:
The Light of Interiors
by Kay Ryan
by Kay Ryan
The light of interiors
is the admixture
of who knows how many
doors ajar, windows
casually curtained,
unblinded or opened,
oculi set into ceilings,
wells, ports, shafts,
loose fits, leaks,
and other breaches
of surface. But, in
any case, the light,
once in, bounces
toward the interior,
glancing off glassy
enamels and polishes,
softened by the scuffed
and often-handled, muffled
in carpet and toweling,
buffeted down hallways,
baffled equally
by the scatter and order
of love and failure
to an ideal and now
sourceless texture which
when mixed with silence
makes of a simple
table with flowers
an island.
is the admixture
of who knows how many
doors ajar, windows
casually curtained,
unblinded or opened,
oculi set into ceilings,
wells, ports, shafts,
loose fits, leaks,
and other breaches
of surface. But, in
any case, the light,
once in, bounces
toward the interior,
glancing off glassy
enamels and polishes,
softened by the scuffed
and often-handled, muffled
in carpet and toweling,
buffeted down hallways,
baffled equally
by the scatter and order
of love and failure
to an ideal and now
sourceless texture which
when mixed with silence
makes of a simple
table with flowers
an island.
