Charles Yuen’s home in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, is comfortably domestic and suburban in feeling, which somehow surprises me, after having seen his zany and sardonic paintings earlier in the year at Studio10 in Bushwick.
I fell in love with Ridley Howard’s painting when I saw his 2014 exhibition at Koenig & Clinton Gallery. The show, as a whole, created a world that one rarely sees in contemporary art: romantic, refined, delicate, and impeccably crafted.
I met Erika Ranee last summer when I took students to see a pop-up exhibition she curated in a Brooklyn studio, arranged around the theme of imagery of the eye.
Walking through the green door into June Leaf’s old-school New York studio — a street-level space downtown — is a bit like entering a Willy Wonka world.
Last summer, Bill Scott and I were invited to participate in final critiques at the Mount Gretna School of Art. Critiques are usually predictable affairs, but I was surprised by Scott’s interactions with the students.
“I’m just getting started,” Sam Gilliam says with a playful smile as he watches me take in his Washington, D.C. studio.
When Carrie Moyer and I decided to have a conversation, her recent paintings were already at DC Moore Gallery, where her solo exhibition — now on view — was soon to open. We met there after hours, and over beer and chips, and talked among the works leaning against the walls.
“I love it here, but this isn’t my true home,” Gregory Amenoff says, looking out the window of his studio in Ulster County, New York. “Too green,” he declares.
Angela Dufresne had a couple of beers cracked open and ready when I arrived at her East Williamsburg studio. It was an old-school painting studio – which somehow surprised me, perhaps because Dufresne’s work is so dense with contemporary theory.
Lucy Mink Covello lives in New Hampshire, not too far from where I spend a couple of weeks every summer. We met at my friends’ farm, spread a blanket under trees in the apple orchard, and shared some beer, bread, and cheese.
In the middle of our conversation, Susan Walp suddenly paused, gazing down at the table. “Look at that,” she told me, pointing out tiny ellipses, the patterns of the window screen reflected on the surface of a small pewter pepper grinder.
LOS ANGELES — “We are drinking beer, right? Because I’m celebrating, “ Lesley Vance says to me when I arrive at her house in the Laurel Canyon neighborhood of Los Angeles.