Some days I feel the need for the abstract and complex, like a deep, brooding stormy day where I sit around listening to Love and Rockets albums and smoking my pipe, staring at a portrait of Nietzsche and grumbling. Then there are other days when I need to lay back and stare at the sun with my eyes closed, letting my whole world get swallowed up by the color red, eating a lemonade popsicle and sweating happily. Somewhere in the middle of all that is the day that I want to look at Melissa Forman’s paintings, a day that starts out overcast and chilly, but brightens up without ever really getting warm, and the sky is that blue you can only marvel at, calming but cold, complex but vivid and direct. A day for reading Fitzgerald in the park with a scarf. Her paintings are the days that I expect to be pulled sideways into an urban fairy tale accidentally.
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