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Schulze's corrective to painting's gentle trends turns its dull insipidness into a direct address against recent decor-abstractionists so widespread critics began wondering if they were painted by a virus of mindless humanoids in search of brains. Schulze's dumbness turns against its soft assuage with a visual, uh, enmity of childish mockery of the mindless willing to line up neatly along walls to see their splatters upon it, the distress of the constipation of painting today, which a purge of this expulsive anal-expressive type offers its own relief of jammed traffic.
See too: Nicolas Party at Gregor Staiger
