It’s the not-so-distant dystopia, and the best contenders for legacy appear to be: nostalgia, plastic, and colorless gases.
In Art Tavera’s latest repository of abstract expressionism musings, it’s open mic night, and we’re teetering at the edge of the world, falling off clean lines and minimalism. We’re unpolishing edges. Letting hedges grow. Hanging loose with the fact that we know that we mostly don’t know.
Like a dog shaking off mud after a swim in the swamps, the paintings in this rotation are far from joylessly done.
Out here, we flow with the chaos. Everyone is offered a welcome kit: a mixed loot bag of odds and ends, but mostly wild-card oddities and not much emphasis on endings. In this Kardashev type of civilization, chloroform is energy and currency. We swing between euphoria and toxicity on our way to and from the fridge. We keep our most loved memories like lovingly stuffed animals kept in a glass display. Every now and then, we call them out to play.