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reflection, by E. J. Willson
Sunday morning Roland came to consciousness. Eyes stuck shut with the crust of sleep and the weight of last night�s vodka. His mind, muffled from alcohol, struggled
to place his whereabouts. His hands, stiff, callused and numb from years of painting, stroked the bed sheets. "Flannel, country home, Connecticut," he thought to himself, then sighed. "Home, Maria, I�m home."
NEW YORK TIMES - �Life�s Reflection� Roland Gilmore, Unlimited Visions Gallery,
755 Spring Street, SoHo, through March 15.
Roland Gilmore returned to the New York art scene with his first showing in five years. A master of innovative color, brush and texture, his art has graced the walls of collectors and museums around the world. After the death of his wife, Maria, five years ago, it had been rumoured that he would never paint again.
Sunday afternoon. Roland faced the mirror in his bathroom. He moved a little
closer to his razor. Methodically, his strokes removed the stubble, returned the artist�s face. He saw no comfort there.
It became known last year that Gilmore had rented studio space in SoHo. Against the
vibrancy of New York City, it was expected Gilmore would interpret the city in swaths
of color brushed to new boldness. Instead, what greets the gallery visitor are small, detailed, pen and ink drawings. No color, no brush strokes, no sweeping canvases of
explosive brilliance that Gilmore became known by.
Roland stood at the bar in his den. He stared at his hands. Once they had created
beauty, formed colour and texture into sweeping statements and carried his emotions to canvas. Now, a new task was in store for them. They would still carry a message. He reached for the vodka.
Does an artist have an obligation to please his audience with what they have come to expect and want? No. Yet, what Gilmore has presented does not even resemble any connection to his previous work. The drawings are bleak with muted greys and faded
browns. They are all based on various types of vessels, either empty or broken. The juxtaposition between the ink�s fluidity and the matte surface succeeds in bringing
a necessary bleakness to his subject matter.
Roland�s Connecticut studio welcomed light through large glass panes facing all
directions. Glass supported by narrow wood beams. Cedar shingled roof held together
by more glass skylights. The Glass House. In the centre of nature�s canvas. Roland
sat on a stool in the centre of his studio. One vodka bottle in hand, another under the stool. Surrounded by vibrant colours on canvasses of all size and scale. Outside, winter�s wind blew with the sharp taste of ice.
It is clear from the continuous theme of broken vessels that Gilmore sees New York
as less than whole. There will always be the draining of the individual�s soul and the
emptiness of the masses when huddled so close together. The pen lines, at times sharp
and precise, at times, thick and flowing, reflect Gilmore�s command of his subject and
his ability to attack the whole spectrum.
Roland ran his hand through his fading hair. Though fine and scarce, the texture was soft, like Maria. The first four years after Maria died, Roland worked in this studio, recreating his love for her, with paintings steeped in a richness of exciting hues, textures and innovative brush strokes.Each stroke a caress as personal as his touch. Every canvas a reflection of his intimacy with Maria. For Maria, for him, for no one else. And now, this last year, Roland did the pen and ink. The empty and broken vessels. But not here. Not in this space.
It is obvious that Roland Gilmore is beginning a new chapter in his work. His mastery of whatever he turns his hands to is reason to look forward to his next exhibition and it is with confidence that can be said, whatever the subject matter, Roland Gilmore will deliver.
Roland took the cap of the vodka bottle, raised it to his lips and drank deeply.
He let his eyes search outward among the canvasses. Not for the largest, nor the smallest, the most cherished. Maria, swathed in a crimson shawl, her hair full and black falling softly on olive skin. Her eyes inviting him to her, her lips parted with promise.
When asked by this reviewer for a personal statement reflecting this latest work, Gilmore left the Gallery.
Roland raised the bottle in a toast to one canvas, then took a drink. He toasted
the next, then took another drink. He continued to honour each canvas until he finished the bottle. He reached under the stool for the second bottle.
Next week�s review will be of the artist �Michelina� and her "Tapestries of the Inner
Child". Robert Bennet Gallery, Greenwich Village, Through April 10.
Softness came to Roland�s thin frame. Life lines relaxed on his face as the corners of his mouth reached upward. He stood up and began to walk around his studio, stopping in front of each painting, studying it, then would gently pour some of the vodka on it. When he came to his favorite painting of Maria, he gently lifted it off the easel and tucked it under his arm. He then walked to the door of the studio and poured the last of
the vodka on a tapestry that hung beside the door. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a book of matches. With one strike, Roland lighted the tapestry. As the flames started to crawl up the fabric, Roland took one last look around the studio, smiled and left with Maria.
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