Glenn Sorensen at Corvi-Mora

(link)

The oil continues ink spread, like dipped in it. Continue into the night, where the world fractures into shadows and shards. It is frustrating that writing about the night always sounds poetic since Sorensen's seem to have done away with anything melliferous, instead something tasting more like nickel. I think it's the green, the color of late-night television thrown onto bad carpet. It is science fiction lighting. Ominous green. Feel like seeing something, then seeing nothing.


See too: Glenn Sorensen at Annet Gelink

Glenn Sorensen at Annet Gelink

(link)

Got to give Jennifer Higgie Credit for calling Sorensen "post-industrial Monets." If the impressionists commented on the particularity of French light, Sorensen maybe on the peculiar liquidness of lighted night, and what had been Sorensen's illustrative starkness now sights meltdown of a visual disturbance sort, of unnatural abruptness that shorts rods and cones into afterimages, emergency light, disorientated to something representational that feels abstract.