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Metropolis (2007), acrylic, charcoal, porous point marker on canvas, 84” x 132”







Ignorance was truly bliss when I spotted this staggering, large painting at the AGO last month. I didn't know of the artist, so I viewed it at face value, no back story. It was the only photo I took during my luxuriously long, first-time visit to the Frank Gehry-redeveloped gallery. I needed more Denyse Thomasos.

The painting hits as a visual mash-up of Leviathan nightmare and architectural chaos, created with a free, confident, skilled hand. Art can do that: have you gasping in front of what is just canvas and markings. It can rock the centre of your being or reinforce exactly where you sit in the universe at that moment in time. Maybe this is what they mean by having an out-of-body experience.

Some post-viewing googling unveiled the tragic news that the artist Thomasos, born in Trinidad and raised in Canada until moving to New York in 1989, died this summer "after an adverse reaction to a dye injected for a routine MRI," according to a statement at the Olga Korper Gallery, where her work has been shown throughout her professional life as an artist. She was my age, recently married, a mother.

An important Canadian artist with an international reputation, a professor at Rutgers University in New York CIty, Thomasos has since had many news stories written about her work and her life, interrupted.

Her brilliant paintings, which deal with heavy themes ranging from super-prisons to slave ships and rampant globalization, are left to speak for themselves. 

Here are a few examples, and an interview, where Thomasos generously explains her process:

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Untitled, 2012 acrylic on canvas 48" x 60" (Image courtesy of Olga Korper Gallery)
  

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Arc 2001, acrylic on canvas 48" x 60" (Image courtesy of Olga Korper Gallery)
  

 
 
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I was walking out of a Seattle Value Village, defeated (damn you Capitol Hill hipsters) on just another steel-grey Wet Coast day when I was hit by shards of colour on concrete.

Instead of simply preserving the old painted signage from Days of Yore, art interrupts, giving this warehouse-turned-lofts surface something else to say.

I’m sure the combo of individuals and business owners who funded the Monique Mural was encouraged by the graffiti-deterrent factor, especially given that the guys who tackled the wall in the fall of 2008 are local veterans of that medium.

It’s the attractive, disruptive, stimulating, irreverent, pretty and pretty disturbing patterning that had me at hello. Laying it all over the ghost markings of an antiquated economy heightens the hyper-accelerated world viewed in flashes and fragments.

I'd like to see a little more of that kind of fresh, bold reflection here in the Most Livable City in the Universe.


 
 
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Almost a year after my final sculpture class with the venerable Liz Magor I'm still wrestling with her challenge to me to find the crack in the beauty.

At least once a day I'm confronted with this concept but I only see it in the periphery. I know I'm seeing it when I get that zing, like an endorphine rush. Or sciatica.

I see it here in the barnacles-on-oyster-shells my nephew, quasi-niece and I painted with cheap neon paints they brought up to the cabin. It's somewhere in the understanding that barnacles and oyster shells are not to be doused in day-glo, that neon'd natural forms do not belong in a rural setting.

It's a subtle sabotage that raises questions, starts conversations. It activates the idea of crack in beauty.

I would like to believe I'm able to let go of the 'pretty' and embrace the power of the 'pretty/ugly' but I'm not quite there; the rest of the painted logs and rocks and shells were left outside to dry overnight and the next morning the water-based colours had run, leaving only traces of the neon paint job. Liz Magor would have probably liked that. She might even have made that little 'whoo' sound like she does when she likes what she sees.

I chucked them back onto the beach.