I remember being in full rapture before many of her paintings, due, at least in part, to the maximal stimulant of urban energies made up of numerous tightly edged regions of bright colors evoking a post-Surrealist geography of imagination.
Graham Hamilton’s exhibition at Theta feels familiar yet off, like its title, “Dearly.” What a curious adverb. What on earth can you be doing if you’re doing it dearly? “Dearly beloved” evokes a wedding ceremony at the outset, though it’s a particular sort of matrimony for those loved very much; the minister might be Protestant but not fire-breathing; and it’s the ’50s, maybe the ’60s. “Dear” is so basic that, too, is beginning to show its age, its staginess. I myself still address correspondence with the salutation “Dear,” especially when writing to strangers, but that’s all very affected,
Plus, what gallery suggested that a collector auction a piece by one of their own artists? Which artist is offering a painting in exchange for Beyoncé tickets?