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The paintings are a series of mischievous stories and their comedies are dry and sarcastic. They attempt to ride off into the sunset but fall flat off their dead horses. Their encounters are vast and maybe glorious, yet they are often lonely and odd in their specificities. Their moments are caught in the facade of a landscape; scenes of longing, brush to scrape through, and lakes to make out and then drown in. They stage a queered inexactitude that always feels like blasé tenderness.
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