The paradoxical combination of freedom and entrapment animates Goodman’s composition in her latest body of work.
Brenda Goodman
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Brenda Goodman’s Fearless Self-Portraits
While I have seen Goodman’s self-portraits numerous times, the unlikely combination of raw pathos and tenderness always stops me in my tracks.
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Brenda Goodman’s Abstraction and Pain
In her art, Goodman seems to both revisit trauma and heal it. The results are moving and painful.
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Where Brenda Goodman’s Paintings Are Taking Us
From limbless bodies to gorging, ravenous figures to gouged surfaces, there has always been something broken and deeply damaged about Goodman’s art.
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Beer With a Painter: Brenda Goodman
“The thing that’s fascinating me now more than anything, is when a painting is right. What makes a painting right?”
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Brenda Goodman Moves into New Territory
Between 1994 and 2011, Goodman painted a series of self-portraits that constitute one of the most powerful and disturbing achievements of portraiture in modern art.
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Brenda Goodman Cuts Deep
Goodman’s recent work is distressing, captivating, and weirdly funny.
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The Body Politic, in the Flesh
A snapshot of a singularly unhinged moment in American politics has inadvertently envisioned an uncertain and potentially terrifying future.
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Scar Tissue
One of the things that I admire about Brenda Goodman is her willingness to push a painting into a territory all its own. She isn’t interested in stylistic consistency or any of the other common denominators that can be used to brand one’s work.
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In Five Decades of Self-Portraits, an Artist Refuses to Tone Down Her Feelings
DETROIT — Brenda Goodman has been steadily doing her thing for decades, moving from early success within the Cass Corridor movement in her native Detroit, to a varied career in New York City, and finally to her current retreat in the relative sanctity of the Catskills.
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The Other Side of Portraiture
It may be a stretch to say that portraiture is in the air — given that there are all of two exhibitions devoted to it in New York City right now, one in Manhattan and one in Brooklyn — but their confluence can feel like the kind of Marxian (Groucho, not Karl) charge you get from watching a tradition-bound idiom seize up and explode.
