A number of subjects lock together in a moment: there is feeling in the colors (horrific gobs of white paint) but also in how a cat’s head is cut from the frame. We witness a witness’s silent despair, and we see it set in a richly peopled world. The figures are crafted with rubbery whimsy, and good laughs go with the joy of reading our own lives inside the strange dynamic relationships implied by the images.
I found a Chicago painter I rather like. His works showed at an open studio night in Roscoe Village (neighborhood famous for infants, I always figured) at the Cornelia Arts Building, which, like a magic door that brooks only for the right moon, has just four public openings each year. When I left the painter, named Eric Weinstein, said “Maybe I will see you in the fall.”