I’m drinking a beer on a bus on beautiful day back from the hamptons, looking at this show, having just seen it in person a month ago.
The printed images do little besides fill. They’re okay, look quite soft, and the paintings half hearted commitment to their motives hope for a miracle to lift them out their mediocrity, like much painting today.
But then there’s the purple one downstairs, which gives just enough to risk some surrealistic embarrassment, achieves some illustrative oddness. Its not the great, but its something to look at.