Depiction of the texture of the flower’s petals in a painterly and somewhat free-flowing style powerfully evokes the sense of touch. These flowers were meant to be touched first, smelled second — paradoxically, these are the blind person’s versions, Braille flowers, if you will. It is not the brushwork and the actual laying of paint upon the board, but rather the illusion of the immediacy of tactile sensation passed by purely visual means that brings these flowers to life. The stress here is not on the literally sensuous but on the conceptual and abstract processing; it’s as if feelings of touch are being transferred directly into the viewer’s brain.

In more technical terms, a detailed description of how light and color interchange contributes to said illusion. The petals appear to flutter and crease like paper; nevertheless, the main subject of each painting is still the bloom, a unified whole that is more than the sum of its petals. The artist coats the flowers with a white veil of light, the former absorbing the latter in its entirety (nothing is reflected). Curiously, there are no large shadows around the flowers — a fact that discloses the wish to keep things as abstract as possible — but plenty of small dark patches and undefined areas that sculpt the leaves.

The impression of thinness accords with the reticent, low-key and somewhat pale palette. Everything is subdued here, reflecting the onset of withering and expressing a melancholic mood. One would assume that these flowers were painted for their delicacy and fragility; the artist finds appropriate backgrounds to complement these features. The choice of neutral backgrounds produces the effect of surprise, as if the blooms expanded from nowhere and filled the space. If so, this might have been the most energetic and important moment in “the lives” of these florals; the general parabolic movement denotes an opposite process, not devoid of its own quiet poetry.

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It would be interesting to determine the symbolical meaning of the flowers (since they lack a textual one). I think that the meaning here is of broad allusion to civilization, as it was created by the written word; in this context the aim would be to remind the audience that civilization is near, that people are around, and that that hand may indeed appear as if from nowhere and clear the view for us. So in fact this is a soothing element — a somewhat paradoxical conclusion considering the alarming bright red color. On the other hand, we are being given a close-up view of the wild growth far ahead — a preparation and a warning — more signs of civilization.

In terms of traditional western aesthetic the flowers may act as a focal point. However, the overpowering bright reds bend this role to claim more attention and importance. This feature creates a complex net of meanings, shuffling between foreground (and civilization) and background (and wild nature). The closed compositions add a sense of tropical atmospheric heaviness that makes itself notable after some viewing time — the time needed to desensitize oneself from the redness. Here the water, flowing in parallel to the garlands, refreshes the air, as if putting down a fire: the artist reminds us of the relief water brings by giving it a similar role in the painterly context.

For my last review of Dawn Lundquist’s work I wanted to choose between the seascapes and the waterfalls. For various reasons, I prefer the latter works — admittedly a subjective bias. I love the richness of the vegetation and how the artist saturates the air with mist spray. I find the seascapes too familiar, living on the Mediterranean shore, whereas the Edenic waterfalls look fresh and tempting. But there is no doubt that the former possess similar freshness to appreciate which would take only a few hours inside an apartment, a cubicle, or a car — when the vacation is over.

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The sharp color variations of the birds’ plumage both defines and accentuates the difference. The red and orange clash with the black, white and green, generating bright, discordant harmonies that engross one’s attention. Sometimes it may seem that the roosters were the artist’s excuse to experiment with wild color combinations — like parrots would seem nature’s to experiment with grotesque decorative designs. I think that these roosters’ flashy coloration breaks down the prejudice of a boring gray domesticated bird. With the artist’s help, they restore some dignity, which makes them equals among such show-offs as said parrots or even peacocks.

It is easy to recognize characteristic gestures: one is evidently in an attacking/advancing mode while the other is singing. The artist makes her subjects interesting and endearing not only for their plumage but also for their demeanor. The proud postures reveal fearlessness and the readiness to engage in a fight: I don’t know if some of the depicted breeds are of the fighting kind, but it is easy to imagine them as such. It takes only a few long, curving and strong contour lines to condense the birds’ character — a linear economy that makes sense in the overall painterly context.

Line is not the only element to be reduced to formal simplicity: undemanding symmetry and balance make up the bulk of the compositional conception. The artist skillfully positions the cocks near a tree, or counterpoises the head with the tail. I find the results delightful: while in terms of symmetry the left side mirrors the right side, in terms of color they produce a poignant contrast. It can be that this coexistence of balance and imbalance reflects the rooster’s lazy alpha behavior — I would certainly pay more attention now, when I see one.

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Arguably the most dominant stylistic feature in these paintings is the dense, overflowing use of color. It appears to trickle down from the petals and paint the air; the flowers seem to be sweating hue, so thick and generous are the patches of deep blue, red, white and orange. Usually only two or three main colors constitute the entire palette; they interchange and create intense compositions (usually relying on radial symmetry).

The color technique leaves less room for air and light, which are subsequently of diminished importance here. As a result, the atmosphere may appear as particularly heavy, humid and sticky; since these qualities indeed characterize tropical locations, it remains to conclude that the extraordinary density of color ensues from a necessity dictated by the climate conditions (I love it when everything falls in place like that — for me, this is the mark of good art). Although each painting usually shows only one single flower, the overall impression is of being submerged into a jungle.

As it often happens when color takes precedence, the painterly vanquishes nearly all traces of the linear. These are the antidote to a botanical illustration: the emphasis here is on the unified whole, on the movement of humid air that soaks the painted surface and on a mystical luminescence that all but evokes mythical contemplation on the emergence of life. Unusual viewing angles and an unclear generic status — in most cases it is impossible to determine whether the flowers are still life or still growing — contribute to the mystical mood. Furthermore, the lack of detail disrupts scale perception and the flowers may appear like giants slowly moving through air. Everything seems to conspire to convey something magical.

In a contrary turn, these florals succeed also in something more real and tangible: the depicted richness overstimulates the visual perception as to overflow and arouse, if only in one’s mind, other senses — particularly the sense of smell. The Angel’s Trumpet you see above may seem to spread faint tinkling and accompany its heavenly ambiance. Regardless of one’s readiness to accept such interpretation, ignoring the sensuous abundance — naturally predisposed to engage other senses — would be unfair. These flowers want to smell and sound — and who are we to stop them?

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A secondary, but important motif is that of sleep. The arrangement of grass islands, randomly or neatly interspersed among the snow, reminds of bed linen patterns, while the white associates with down that fills pillows and the light brown of the grass links directly to straw that fills mattresses. The cold winter weather is known to paralyze and put to sleep a casual wanderer. Could it be that said hidden resources contain some darker, hypnotic powers? Could a conflict seethe under the sheet of snow? Possibly so — but the surfaces do not reveal anything; all we see is the weak light reflected off the ice crust. However, if there are indeed some primitive forgotten instincts that allow people to communicate with nature on a different level, the artist captured their essence in these landscapes.

Composition-wise, these works again resemble the river pieces. Due to the low viewing angle the ground level fill most of the canvas, which in turn allows to develop long, anticipatory vistas. Human presence is hinted at by the accurately arranged growth — but the snow seems to aim to cancel any sign of the domestic, and human touch remains limited to mentioned instincts. Finally, I think that these pieces, and Takeyce Walter’s work in general are particularly effective at probing into people’s most spontaneous, initial responses to nature and seasonal changes. As such, the landscapes are difficult to write about — they do not render themselves to words easily — because they work on other levels. But that speaks only to their advantage.

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In almost all of the pieces in this series, the trees are cut by the frame, and the audience sees only the middle section. While somewhat annoying at first, this feature prompts the viewers to plunge into the experience of gazing and enjoying nature — by denying them any roots or crowns to fix their eyes on. The narrow field of vision simulates walking in an unknown environment, stepping without knowing where one’s feet would land; it cultivates uncertainty and even fear. We are put inside the groves in first person, as if able to touch the trunks just by extending a hand. The rhythm of the birches, curved or straight, encourages to imagine oneself as another tree. The aggregate effect is of a powerful bond with nature.

Though one of the close-up birches usually provides a focal point, the compositions lack a clear center. This is a strange quality in a landscape where the subjects fill most of the foreground. It is as if the artist paints close scenes while having the panoramic remote background in mind; she does not want the audience to focus on a particular point in the foreground — as much as we may be tempted to — but rather conceive the painting as a wide landscape. To my mind, this is not an easy exercise (especially considering the notion of the intimate experience described earlier), but a highly rewarding one.

These are two-layered works that uphold compositional and color balance by making juxtapositions. Thus, the birches’ finesse mellows the mountains’ solemnity and the maple hot orange spots offset the cool tones in the back. The visual transition from one layer to another is natural because there is no center that would draw all the attention and interfere. Indeed, at some point it may appear that the configuration of the maple leaves clusters repeats the contours of the hills. Overall, the artist created a series of deep landscapes that succeed in resonating with a range of human emotions.

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It is difficult to write about these works — it is much easier to experience them. The scenes encourage listening rather than speaking; immobility instead of motion. The duplicate compositional conception of a water plane copying the sky and the trees leads to cogitations on the role of the artist. The mirroring water surface transfers “what it sees” onto its liquid canvas, producing the most believable illusion of three dimensionality. Isn’t it what the artist also strives to do? What is the purpose of a landscape artist — to copy nature as it is, or offer individual interpretations, such as the impressionists did? These paintings do not provide any clear answers; their merit lies in restating the questions.

The artificial vista of light disorientates and appears to play a little trick on the audience. I made an experiment: I viewed the piece from a standing position and from a sitting position. In the former case, the overall sensation was of strange instability, one approximately akin to being in water (standing or swimming) — which generally requires the sharpening of the senses (at least for a landlubber), prompted by the alien environment. The picture was so vivid that I felt a mild rush of adrenaline. Add to this the allusion to the biblical miracle of the parting sea, and you have all the components of a drama. Yet the paintings are evidently the exact opposite — peaceful and quiet.

In the latter case, however, the situation was reverse. Everything seemed to have gone “back to normal:” total stability and calm ruled, as if I was sitting inside a boat, safe and protected. The apparent reason for these changes is the viewing angle: the paintings are suited for observing from a sitting position. But the availability of an alternative adds a touch of provocation, or perhaps even a taunt at our expense. These shifts in perception remind me of anamorphosis, only here it is the viewer who has to undergo a change of perspective, and an emotional one at that.

Technically, the glassy surface carries the burden of land and sky gracefully and without excess ripples. In some parts, the artist makes her brush strokes more discernible where the mirrored blue adjoins the dark green (and black), amplifying the irony of the two bordering each other. Water reflections appear to be one the artist’s specialties, but nowhere does she flaunt her control of the theme; rather, she lets nature speak for itself — and makes the audience listen.

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One of the purposes of this light is to convey the heat, and the sense of heat. The artist achieves this by withering the palette (I would guess with tint), by playing with value and paying close attention to shadow/light interchanges, when such are there. (I would also guess that varnish plays a role in building this light.) Eventually, the effect is so convincing that when viewing a painting that depicts morning time below), when the sun hasn’t scorched everything yet, one can almost experience the freshness of the air and breathe more freely. The colors are damper and darker; the heat hasn’t raised all the dust into the air.

To capture vast space without overloading the viewer, the artist keeps things simple in terms of composition and color. I think these choices benefit the theme: hue harmony and compositional flow take precedence over small detail in panoramic landscapes, and particularly so in small paintings. Yet there are subtle elaborations, sophisticated color overlaps and gradations that reveal a tendency towards maximal precision. As a result, I found myself struggling to make out the buildings from the town contours, and the trees behind the meadow (the painting below). By giving the viewers the impression that they indeed could, the artist may have achieved his main goal.

To conclude this series of reviews of Frank Gardner’s work, I would like to say that I find his use of light, though at times harsh for viewing, emotionally exhilarating. Thematically, some of his Mexican farm paintings exhibit a gentle romantic pastoral streak (when the workers appear from afar, moving away from the viewer) , while others are more realist (when they work right in front of the audience, moving towards it). Finally, his work displays such a clear compositional vision and unity of design that if asked to describe it in just a few words, I would say: “He always gets his point across.”

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Appropriately, the viewing angle positions the observer just on the brink of the two elements, maybe with an insignificant bias towards the sea. This compositional uncertainty translates into an emotional one, as if the painting models an inner conflict by asking us “where do you belong?” The point of the question would be not only to elicit a specific answer from the audience, making each viewer to learn a thing or two about him or herself, but to familiarize us with the ongoing dilemmas of the sailor’s life. For me, these pieces serve as an introduction to a different and precarious way of life — which many communities have led for centuries, thrived, and still continue to do so.

Stylistically, these are sure-handed works — I enjoy the robust, swift brushwork in particular — enriched with impressionistic water reflections. It is strange how a degree of randomness exposes a firm brush where too much thought and planning would do the same to an uncertain one. Here, the generally chaotic distribution of color used to create a believable illusion of the water surface does the former. In other parts, this is impressionism on condition: sunlight emaciated the boats’ color, which seems ready to crack, peel off and reveal the dirty gray and red of metal and corrosion. It’s as if there is some realist intent encroaching, preparing to take over after sundown. Overall, the extremely bright sunlight sets the tone and adds an energizing touch of urgency.

To conclude, I would like to offer a comparison to Todd Bonita’s much more intimate and calm boat paintings. Although both artists illustrate similar themes, there are several important differences (besides the obvious stylistic ones). First, there is the matter of size: Todd Bonita paints smaller vessels. Second, as a result, it would appear that the latter’s work is more individual oriented, whereas Frank Gardner seeks to describe broader and mass social situations. It’s one fisherman versus a whole fleet; a small creek versus a big seaport. Finally, both artists, while limiting their palette to almost trichromatic, achieve opposing effects of tranquility and bustle. Each painter benefits from the comparison; Frank Gardner’s work stands out as the more worldly and cosmopolitan.

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The town residents, usually workers, move in a space confined by walls so high as to almost define them colossal. For me, it is obvious that the artist aims to juxtapose the structures with the people, using space as a compositional means. The question arises: what is the purpose of this comparison, what idea, or, perhaps, agenda the artist wants to forward? It seems that the answer to this question lies within the paintings themselves — a common theme they present, to be precise.

On general terms, the scenes capture the spirit of a community: the depicted work, converse and tread in an environment not dissimilar to an ant hill. I think that the painter wanted to stress that people, as a community, precede their concrete surroundings, despite the small size; one ant standing near an ant hill may seem unimportant, yet it means everything in a “human ant hill.” It is the community that emerges as the thematic safe haven, not the city, which merely forms the outer shell, however impressive.

The massive walls overlook the small figures yet, somehow, seem sleepy and appeased (at the first glance), as if exhausted by the sun. The buildings resemble giants — though I would not necessarily vouch for their gentleness. They store a lot of energy, and it’s unclear how it could erupt, if at all, and for what reason. I think that eventually this indeterminacy and lack of will emphasize human control and domination. Indeed, the architectural motif of the building in the piece you see below, if personified, would appear subservient: imitating the paws of a giant sphinx, with claws retracted before the walking woman, or a face with its gaze directed downward, in an expression of obedience.

To sum up, a few words (more in the following reviews) on Frank Gardner’s style. His choices of sometimes very surprising locations and edgy, unconventional compositions that produce unexpected geometrical shapes, labyrinths or heavily unbalanced configurations, they all point to high painterly confidence. Original viewing angles reveal a master whose foremost skill may lie in identifying the best location for his next painting, at least when working en plein air. Often I feel as if presented with an object or a theme from the side of the tail rather than of the head — a creative attitude that signifies a fresh approach, one which apparently became the norm for the artist.

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