Even through the noxious we can move, and the agitated murk, settling over time, is the price we pay for a moment of clarity.
Three painters whose separate investigations feed on the very disruption they generate; the tricky business of chasing fugitive thoughts into physical form. Not content in offering a palatable lozenge to soothe and sedate, each artist chooses instead to make life as difficult as possible for both themselves and the viewer. Recognisable motifs float annoyingly in and out of focus. Odious blobs of paint resemble the junk of our silly lives.
Brandon’s distortions taunt with peripheral suggestions of the familiar. Fleeting expressions, faces comic, tragic, in motion, troubled by their own efforts to self-assemble into a recognisable form.
Lancaster’s to and fro liquidity morphs into a barricade of charged marks. A distant hill, the framework of a room. The canvas as surface. A window. Neither and both.
Cross creates noire outtakes, half coffee, half catastrophe. He seems to be sending us a postcard from the apocalypse, inflected with a quirky set of hidden keys.
Stop. Look. Take your time.
We are in the glory of not knowing what we are doing.