by Andrew Beckerman

Let's forget for a moment about the obvious skill that is needed to paint in a photorealistic manner, not because ability and exactitude are qualities shrugged off in the ennui-laden era we live in, but rather because it's evident in Ned Martin's work, and the less obsessed we are over it, the less oohs and ahs we generate in slack-jawedness, the better we can concentrate on what's happening behind the scenes.

by Andrew Beckerman

Mark Peterson's childhood was itinerant in nature; the son of a land surveyor, his family traveled often, and while one might be tempted to draw a direct line between his origins and the pervasive Americaness - a general and inherent feeling of America, that is - in his paintings, it's better to see his childhood not as a direct cause, but as a number of experiences that opened up a path for Peterson to become the painter he is.

by Eugene Hwang

"I call my style 'Reality with a Twist', because it is very realistic, but unlike anything you would ever see," Splane says. Splane's "Reality with a Twist" perhaps more closely approaches reality than "anything you would ever see" as these paintings incorporate experiential reality into visual reality. What one perceives visually inevitably triggers associative thoughts and memories, which Splane asserts are no less real than what one sees. The seen and imagined are endowed with the same verisimilitude so that the viewer is unable to distinguish the two. Some of these works have a meta element to them and point out how strange it is that illusions (which most paintings are) are often used to get a closer grasp of reality.

by Grzegorz Rekas

The process of evolution of my art works brings about two stages. First is a sketch - drawn on paper, and then the next one is a further development of composition and forms on canvas. Usually an artist brings his reflection concerning that, which surrounds him. His point of view is translated into the harmony of color, shape or line, three-dimensional objects and a host of further ideas.

by Eugene Hwang

Caravaggi seems intent on making the viewer uncomfortable, not so much because she wishes to share any inner torment, but because she is recalcitrant. She mischievously withholds the presence of pure beauty. Something always seems askew, but one isn't always quite sure what that something is, which makes for a particularly uneasy situation. Her paintings are, in addition, mordant. Caravaggi snickers. Chills may ensue.

by Andrew Beckerman

Kant's notion of the dynamic sublime is a great starting place for gaining a handhold on understanding Kolbjørn Håseth's work, although perhaps in a sly, slanted way. For Kant, the dynamic sublime was a feeling of the greatness of nature - a tornado, the ocean, a storm of great magnitude - and a kind of absolute surrendering to that greatness. To be caught up in these phenomena is to be completely powerless. To resist, a meaningless gesture, and therefore, in recognizing this, we no longer fear these things because it's not rational to fear something we can't do anything about anyway.

by Eugene Hwang

Dario Andrea's paintings fall into two categories: portraits and collages of portraits. Andrea, who includes in his work not only contemporary people, but also people from the renaissance, depicts the universality of human emotion despite cultural and temporal differences. In dealing with subjects from the renaissance, Andrea adds a touch of surreality: a megaphone protrudes out of an ear, the words "I am" are written on a man's ruff in red.

by Eugene Hwang

The loneliness expressed in Mark McDermott's reticent paintings is only revealed to those with genuine interest, and even then, perhaps there is never full disclosure. The paintings do not want to burden the viewer with their sadness and so everything is done to assure that things are okay. Landscapes and still lifes are often used to obliquely express emotion and the occasional female is taciturn. One wavers in being convinced that everything is fine, but McDermott remains resolute. He is unsure how much of his pain he wants to display, but is inclined to think that the attention would not be worth the tastelessness of being effusive.

by Eugene Hwang

The women of Nicolas Gracey's paintings do not feel worthy enough to stand. They crouch and sit in contrition, shame and melancholy, but remain stoic in facial expression as if inured to the inner travails suffered by the holy or contemplative. Their beauty is no consolation. Beauty, at least of the physical sort, is trivial to them. Perhaps they are not even aware of their beauty or see their beauty as burdensome. The limbs and bedsheets they cover themselves with seem vain attempts to bate their feelings of vulnerability, or perhaps Gracey felt any further bodily exposure would be too distracting.