Painterly "style" is the sediment of an individual's subjectivity accumulating in the granules of their decisions eventually garnering a pile: identity. Look through the glass of another's eyes to see their world through them. We - despite all - trust art to tell us something about its subject. But growing a diaspora of signifiers accumulates a puzzle, a representation adverse to coalescing identity. Delays coherence in its subject, and creates an anxiety in our trust for the text to tell us something. The actual meaning is in this means to distribute meaning. Fails to deliver on its promise of arriving a destination. To make it feel like there may be some. Content is the red herring. Questions are Frankensteinian death-in-life of art. The game of Clue that never ends.
