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You'd think as it softened Williams innuendo would get deeper, more latent more unnerving, but instead abstraction becomes lotion, a relief to hard content. Not even really orifices anymore. A distinct lack of buttholes. The paintings do the blushing for us. There's moments. When the brown takes on the fecal umbers of the gastro-figurative of Michaela Eichwald. Or the only occasional red really engorged with "content," filling out like lips with blood. More frequently colors seem arbitrary like flowers, attracting insects with saccharine stuff. Butts only attract flies, we're trying to harvest gold. At a time when Williams previous hard brush and comic 'tude should be meeting up with the cartoon kids of the day, an interesting choice to take fabric and wipe it away.
See too: Ivy Haldeman at Downs & Ross, Michaela Eichwald at Silberkuppe, Michaela Eichwald at Maureen Paley