How do you warp something as much as possible, but still make it recognizable?
That’s what I kept coming back to as I stood awestruck and questioning, in front of James Flynn‘s work at the Baton Rouge Gallery last month.
This was the first time in a long while that I just let myself experience art. Absorb it. Have thoughts and feelings. And not have to make small talk with the artist like you always have to do at the markets I am so used to attending.
Galleries let you just sit with someone’s work. And think whatever you want to think. And make all the faces you want to express. And stare for as long as you think you possibly can.
How do you translate something so completely while the original looms right there beneath the surface?
What language is so universal, that this level of transgression is rendered inconsequential.
How transcendent are the visual arts.
How strongly bound together.