Fay Ku, Drown (2007).
I talked before about how I try really hard to avoid visceral responses to art and get straight to the dissection and analysis of it, falling in love through sheer art nerd scrutiny. However I enjoy Fay Ku on a completely personal level. My almost evangelical adoration of sketches by Egon Schiele, along with the discovery of Aurel Schmidt sparked a new fascination in me with drawers. Maybe it’s because I’m American, but when I think of painters painting, I think of these hyperbolic Jackson Pollock physical movements, all loose and fluid and dreamy, getting stuff everywhere and not acknowledging mistakes.
I realize that for painters, this is a major exception, rather than the rule, but there’s just something about drawing I find so technically difficult (I cannot draw to save my life, as evidenced on this very blog), and I feel that the people who do it, while definitely more physically connected to the media than most painters, are somehow also more emotionally connected as well. This rapport permeates the work and lingers. It’s actually kind of romantic to think about.
And Fay Ku? I look at her work and my first thought is, “She knows.”
I’ll try not to make a habit of it.
