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Like Bonnard's rags, we like paintings looking picked from studio floors, rubbed with, spilled on, rather than painted, instead congeal a sentience from captured artistic sneezes, gestures. Though these are a lot nicer than the usual strains of scatalogical nappies of the enacted idiot-savant, of say Joe Bradley, of the real base impulses collected. And framed. Which, the frame had once aggrandized its painting haloed, now, redundant to white walls, to the cost of real estate, the frame cartoonifies, ironizes, self-deprecates in the goofy expense of custom routed framing: each an individual like a thumbprint or a mess. Frames are dumb if necessary, and these admit to that, a sort of excusing itself by way of clown. "Oh this red nose?, no."
See too: Calvin Marcus at Clearing, Trevor Shimizu at 47 Canal, Trevor Shimizu at Rowhouse Project
