I saw one painting at an opening tonight that touched me, it was a work on wood sequestered in a vitrine at the back of the gallery, it shows a woman's torso with her tunic descending from her breasts, a strap hits her shoulder, in false modesty, enjoying the solitary caress, just beneath her clavicles, a set of manicured white nails holds the shirt fabric to her chest, an image that overlays cellular formations resembling xerotic tattoos, which gird the figure's dingily lacquered skin as the crackling substrate seeps through, and above these two layers the woman is bleeding out again, blood-letting droplets of umber-colored glue that have dried molten across the surface instead of disappearing like dew, mid-flight, a nun on the run, a Magdalene-Piéta with applique tears.
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