Time seems to have a strange effect on our perception of color, withering and bleaching it into bi- and monochromatic shadows of what it once was. It appears that time stands still in these paintings, and that it indeed does its grim job, discoloring the surroundings and the objects it touches. Although it may seem that such a rendering would “kill” the zest in the paintings, I think that a contrary reaction takes place: according to what the artist elaborates in her written passages, the “old look” evokes rich palettes of memories and past experiences, whether real or imaginary. Color does not just dissolve — it seeps into the deeper resources of our perception, through cracks that time opens in our minds.

The recurring visual motif of a slanting line may be seen as the coded sign that marks and instigates a descent into the abyss of memory. It appears in various forms and variations, but usually involves a tree, either a living, a dead or a processed one. It may be a slightly bent tree in the foreground, later to be substituted by a heavily bent one in a forest in the backdrop; a sloping roof, made of wooden boards, while the whole structure seems to lean back, or a sharp slope that forces a tree into an uncomfortable angle. The slants guide and push the audience “downstairs”, towards its subconscious or forgotten experiences; the general calm atmosphere ensures that the descent occurs without any hindrances and would generally evoke pleasant memories.

You might want to compare the houses to Tracy Helgeson’s barns. In a way the latter’s are the direct opposite: rich in color, they are vibrant, immediate and very much in the “now”; Andrea Kowch’s structures are retrospective and contemplative. It’s interesting to see how color acts as a chronological regulator — the less there is or the muter it is, the farther in time the artist seems to want to travel — and to sweep the audience along with her.

The dependence on a known narrative lends these paintings more general compositional qualities as well. I think that the most interesting of them is the peculiar lack of a strong center, a lack which denotes the images as rather flat (I admit that this is a very subjective viewing). We see augmented focal points, which seem to lead nowhere (or to very sketchy and distant settings). This, of course, is not so, as they lead somewhere very specific, namely the books they decorate. Therefore, considering the practical purpose and context, this lack is not really a deficiency, as more full-fledged pieces might have overshadowed the narrative itself. This is a situation where taking away adds, to the benefit of the text, creating a relationship of supplementation rather than of emulation. Additionally, the general air of absence may tempt future readers to buy the book, to fill the vacuum created by the images.

We witness a sensitivity on the artist’s part: she steps back to allow the written narrative to have its word. The paintings are a part of a bigger design; each is the first frame of a long series of frames — which, perhaps, should be more aptly called pages, or chapters. The painter participates in a teamwork with the writer (and the publisher), bearing responsibility for the first impression and visual imprint. This is a risky enterprise, because some people will decide whether to read the book or not on the basis of the cover, despite the common saying. Considering the classic texts, it is also an overwhelming one — but not enough to confuse the artist, who produced vivid and effective visual introductions that match up to the written content.

This is magical realism: there are no mythical or mystical objects or creatures — only symbolic items and arrangements; the magic is in the lighting, the colors, and in the compositions. Long skylines cut through the canvases “beheading” the women and creating a sense of precipice. The scarecrow has already been decapitated, yet seems alive just as the female models are — but perhaps “alive” here is much more closer to “dead” (the pale bluish tones of the skin color the faces ghastly, and impart a deathly appearance). The artist both communicates and creatively exploits this ambiguity: humankind will rock between life and death if we don’t do something about climate change and/or global warming.

There is another curious feature that may be interpreted as a sign of ecological awareness. The hair that flows backwards supposedly informs the direction of the wind. The depicted setting, however, may seem too quiet for a real wind to “exist” in it; the existense of the flow thus would imply on the inner state of the model. In other words, the apparent indication of wind may serve as a visual metaphor for a spiritual disposition, uneasy and tumultuous. Moreover, the backward, counter intuitive direction of hair flow would signify the artist’s desire to portray a protest. It is possible to recognize the context of the protest (again considering the calm, eerie surroundings) as of a placid and indifferent society on the one hand and of extinction and withering that seems to take place all around on the other.

The contrast of the colors between the in- and outdoors creates (supported by complementing compositional division of space) a certain expectation and anticipation — I think that these feelings are to be resolved by each viewer individually. My own experience tells me that I would rather go outside, into the tempting open spaces seen from the windows — the vast yellow fields provide a relief and breadth of breath, a release of said contrast and tension. The passivity of the models issues a warning: their mannequin plastic look is the result of inaction. The recurring motif of black birds, visualized indirectly in the scare crow, forebodes inauspicious events.


Finally, the allusion to Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows is just too powerful to ignore; it elegantly imports an additional psychological layer and suggests a link between the socially oriented context and a personal one — to be injected by each viewer.

Interesting reiteration may be traced in the bisected fruits: both display a cross section that reveals a telescopic, and somewhat kaleidoscopic pattern that appears to suck the viewer in — where to exactly is unclear, but the black center of the pattern may allude to the eponymous cosmic phenomena, and their destructive forces. I doubt the artist has counted on the sinister effect; the dark end of the tunnel may conceptually (and not without some humor) imply the finishing line of consuming the product — “it was nice while it lasted, it’s over, back to normal now.” This reminds me of the known phrase, “the hole of the bagel”, which means “nothing.” The hole of the artichoke and the hole of the fig seem just as empty and devoid of edible substance… now that’s just not fair!

Complex color modulations offset unassuming compositions. For instance, the whole artichoke boasts several varieties of green, usually achieved by adding white or black to the main tone. The cut version startles and rivets with contrasting color interplay, yellow enveloping the purple, two opposite colors on the wheel. The white of the stem and the innards acts as a neutral, and somehow abstract force of nature; it threatens to burst out into the beholder’s face and to blind, as the expanding feature of white intensifies the air. Indeed, the whole set-up resembles an atomic explosion (or a big bang, to align the metaphors) recalling the violent “end” of the vegetable on the one hand, and the enormous amount of energy that its growth expends on the other. The artist constructs a visual allegory of the agricultural process by color organization (and choice of composition).

The nonchalant arrangement of the figs subtly arouses one’s gustatory sense; the straightforward artichoke does the same thing — they succeed because they hardly seem to try. Naturalist fascination with patterns, geometrical and colorful, gradually transcends into an aesthetic admiration. Powerful palette and simple symmetric compositions secure the latter. But perhaps the most accurate observation that could be made about these pieces is that they keep their promises.

The artist’s choices of angle, lighting and compositional methods direct the viewer to ruminate over more personal and intimate associations. Both of the apparatuses were approached from a rather high angle, as if sneaked upon: that way the artist simulates a quiet intrusion; in a way the viewer is being allowed in medias res of a past telephone conversation, or a writing session. The sheer physical proximity of the instruments disorientates the viewer, forcing to seek an anchor in the form of a compositional hand-rail (not necessarily the focal point). The telephone receiver, a handle in quite a literal way, may serve as such a stabilizer in the piece above, whereas the question mark upon a metallic pole — the two together forming a bar chair — would support the “dizzy” beholder of the painting below. Cropping of principal objects emphasizes their role as supporting tools, as  a partial rendering alludes to the limited mechanical part the tools play. Eventually they serve the people, they are mere automatons.

Perhaps the artist anticipates and ironizes overzealous fascination with technology. In my understanding of these pieces, the interplay of language and its parts with the cumbersome machines that contain it, or even enclose it, reinvigorates the dispute of humanities versus technology, and which will bring the progress we may have gotten accustomed to expect. In a way, the temporality of the devices underscores the vigor of technological progress. Some machines die — new ones appear. We do not see, however, the new generation depicted, it is but implied. It is the letters, either black on white or white on black, vivid and always relevant, that remain active as the only working and still usable components in these devices; words, unlike machines, will never fail those who use them — regardless even of time itself.

M’s today’s blend is so homogeneous that sometimes it is difficult to discern any clear stylistic affiliation. The painter created a style that defies categorization — both a unique adaptation and a category of its own. Indeed, at some point it may seem that the artist may finally settle for any of the relevant trends — realism, hyper-realism or even impressionism, at the stage when light effects enjoy a particular emphasis. For an outside observer that expectation alone is highly stimulating. Ultimately, however, one learns that waiting for a definitive outcome is counterproductive — but more amazing is the fact that that only serves to increase the suspense. Is the artist playing some kind of a highly elaborate visual game? In my newly assumed role as a detective, I tend to say “yes” without a self-reproach of paranoia.

If pressed, I would have to say that the fine details, most reflections, depictions of glassy surfaces are usually hyper-real; light effects are often presented through a translucent impressionistic filter; the darker areas, fortified by earthly tones, exhibit strong realistic traits; finally, economical compositions may be found in either of the schools, as has been shown by several daily (and not only) painters. I admit that this analysis may only testify to my own confusion in the face of the entire (blogged) oeuvre. Once again, the only way I can explain this eclecticism is to suggest that it was the artist’s aim: to carefully study the possibilities of various trends, derive from each one a set of useful features and project them through an individual lens.

Perhaps this outline may serve as a tentative guide to examine and interpret specific paintings. There is no definite distribution of features; each piece may include either qualities in various ratios, depending on the theme and composition — but I find the endeavor itself titillating and gratifying. In M’s own words, the blog was “created to chronicle the artist’s progress as a painter.” We witness this progress, but are doomed to remain a step behind — just where the artist wants us.

Stylistic divergence parallels the emotional one. The piece you see below is evidently realistic; it exploits the little light there is to create a rather anemic pattern (apparently the cow’s shadow) on the ground, while the darker details (particularly in the background) receive strained attention — shadow is king, light is only the page. The artist makes a virtue out of necessity and veers towards realism where impressionism would suffocate due to lack of natural illumination. The other two works, however, can be categorized as impressionistic with nearly the same certainty. Light dethrones shade, which recedes into the hangar’s belly or disappears altogether, and adds characteristic distortions: amplifies close subjects and misshapes them slightly into somewhat generalized types.

It’s interesting how the rural environment, though including a fence, seems compact yet welcoming, as opposed to the vast industrial spaces, which nevertheless cast a claustrophobic sense of no escape. The animal stands undisturbed where grass grows under its hooves, but is constantly on the move — as if on a production line — in enclosed settings. Indeed, the freedom of choice of feed, one of the few liberties domesticated animals may have, appears to have been denied of the animals in industrial farms. Perhaps the random patterns on the cows’ skins may be seen as a protest; a chaotic antidote to the mechanical horizontal and vertical lines of the fences and the supporting pillars.

I think that in these paintings the artist probes into the basic instinct of freedom, common to all animals, including humans. The wide areas with overhanging metal and wood restrict the inhabitants from all directions, and our instinctive reaction of shrinking back when looking (or visiting) can be explained simply: we would not want to live there. We don’t ask the cows… but maybe they can provide some food — for thought too?

Why not examine these paintings from the perspective of the “desire” principle — I was introduced to it during my university studies, and recently encountered a few articles about it on the web. Apparently, libidinal desire, either sublimated into artistic goals, or primordially sexual, drives all people, at all times, all their lives, with only occasional stops for brief pleasurable satisfactions. In a way it is like an inner atomic reactor that may or may not exhaust its fuel as we age. According to this theory, excess energy from this reactor may spill into works of art. The moment at which an artist completes a painting is marked with pleasure, a metaphoric union with the piece that brings him or her a temporary satisfaction and relief.

I think that these paintings summarize this theory in a visual form. (Which is not surprising, considering the highly symbolical nature of the key as an object.) Lets start from the end: a key inside a lock would constitute a union and a satisfaction of desire. It, however, is not there, though tauntingly close, the door being in the background. The desire of the key to reach its designated place can be deduced from the rusty colors covering the steel; the reddish-brown shades of the wood travel to the metal, as if the two are trying to achieve some kind of a superficial merger. Ubiquitous brown color pumps in an energy of totality and, consequently, we again witness the scenes as manifestations of the powerful desire for unity, strained and nearing satisfaction.

Various compositional elements serve as a “cold shower” to cool off the atmosphere and divert the gaze from the intensity of the monochrome. (I actually believe that it emits a certain pre-orgasmic overflowing wave — the reason I thought it would be interesting to utilize a psychological theory for this interpretation in the first place.) So the crack in the wood, the shadows as compositional echoes, value modulations of the main color, the lines and the texture of the wood, the inner corners of the box, the nail — they all alleviate the tension, but do not dissipate it. That way the paintings pose an unending source of fascination, as if contaminated by radioactivity emanating from the artist’s own creative reactor.

Autumnal palette and murky waters, bloated with soft rippling, lull the viewer, as if placing him or her inside one of the vessels. Concurrently, these may be seen as cradles, rocked by the sea — a figurative maternal entity of such magnitude as to reduce any seafarer into an infant. The rhythm of the ripples soothes; the surface absorbs and creases light to produce repetitious hypnotic patterns that float upon the sea as a weightless iridescent net. It gradually enmeshes the imagination, as if cast into the beholder’s mind with the secret motive to fish dreams out of its depths. The artist captures the mystical essence of human relationship with the sea in a counterpoint of realistic depiction, keeping stylistic balance and producing sober and neat compositions.

Geometrical juxtaposition of planes, lines and figures adds the necessary material weight to the prone to fancy images: the blue of the sea and the white of the boats may undergo a simple overturn to represent a filled with clouds sky. To keep the viewer’s head away from such lofty realms, the artist emphasizes the dynamic between the two dimensional plane of the water and the three dimensional objects that float upon it — a scientific reality check, stipulated, nevertheless, by an artistic purpose. A pair of curved planes form the sides of the boats; perpendicular rectangular planks link the sides in what might be seen as an explicit spatial maneuver. Bent lines meet at the head and form a powerful triangle. These are not clouds but sturdy and well thought-out vessels; they arise above the waters to control them.

Paradoxically, said mathematically objective hierarchy of dimensions reminds of man’s tense and unstable interaction with the sea — a power play of fear and domination, with precedence constantly shifting from the element to those who try to master it, and back. The sea likes to remind sailors that it is not only flat, but also deep. Furthermore, by setting off the scientific known, expressed by a stylistic method, against the mentioned unpredictable forces of reverie the artist implies how the search for knowledge and information continuously upsets the balance achieved in this interaction. More advanced navigating instruments disturb the status quo by inspiring hubris; it’s sextant versus fata-morgana — a battle of Titans…

Ernest Hemingway’s novella “The Old Man and the Sea” epitomizes these ideas in a literary form; Todd Bonita’s paintings illustrate them, as well as some of the more beautiful passages from the classic book.

At the first glance we see a remarkable replication of the bottles and the insignia; it acknowledges the advertisement’s power, not without some admiration, and in a way pays tribute to the corporation, at least for the mere courtesy of providing a painting theme. At this stage the idea of business holds its ground, and the paintings may be seen as an exceptionally artistic extension of the commercials. However, after a more careful viewing we notice how pure aesthetic begins to overpower its source; gradually visual effects overshadow the written message. It collides with an iceberg of reflected light and sinks in an ocean of sparkles, to lay forlorn on a seabed of bright red. A Titanic indeed.

Eventually the artist reinforces the boundary between the natural experience of aesthetic appreciation and its artificial commercial exploitation, no matter how sophisticated. Where business blurs, art distinguishes. On a different note, I find that these pieces hold the potential to explode, just like a coca-cola bottle opened after a few shakes. During the two stages the artist shakes ideas, only to show how incompatible (like the red sign near the piece of sky) they can be. In a somewhat ironical finish, he directs the paintings at the viewer, contradictory to the instructions for use usually printed on the bottles’ label. Art, unlike carbonated beverages, explodes only metaphorically.

On the other hand, this is not a call for revolution, but a careful, even stoic study of the current state of events. By his creative effort the artist repackages commercial ideas and presents them to the public again, but on his own terms. He doesn’t offer false hope, reveling in the idea of regaining lost innocence — and there is nothing sarcastic about these paintings. Rather, he buoys the issue with a reserved attitude and gently reminds us that just as the pleasure derived from watching still life can transcend the subject, the pleasure of life can overcome any commercial purpose that tries to abduct it.