(link)
The behatted Kelsey's John Marinesque Watercolors prove Kelsey doesn't have anything to prove after decades romancing the artworld and sailing the echelons of cool across gallerist, artist, writer, fashionista etc. etc, finally expelling the exhaust of hyper aspiration where, like the mythic painted-in-secret still-life paintings of Clement Greenberg, the critic expended relaxes into the comfort of Sunday painting. The cash-in could be eyerolling but the watercolors are endearing in the attention to the body exhausting itself, fights are exhausting, which you can't but think now too of Kelsey - pretty much on his own death-bed of cool - reflecting his own exhaustion and while the legs arms often turn to overcooked elbow noodles, the determination to capture the body is present; the whale stuff, while coy, is shit.
