But it’s the lake that attracts me, as if I were a seagull… – “The Seagull”, Anton Chekhov
June. This exhibition, which comprises work from Gina Beavers, Gene Beery, Win McCarthy, John Seal, and Lily van der Stokker, opens at the very end of its eponymous month. There’s a theater enacted by this season. Love is easier, perhaps because it’s also easier not to sleep. We feed off the senses and the sun is more than food enough. Narratives distill from blossoming and flourish – waking dreams of tan bodies in the midst of short ocean waves, pickled. But as already this warming month closes, the comedies of sight and taste lose their petals, and, like the first round of flowers, go to seed. It’s a story we metabolize with ease, time passing more quickly, already June is a light recollection, almost immediately composted into memory. Quickly July and August will pass with a feeling that you can never leave the party; there’s no clean exit – all’s wet, melted, humid, perspiring – when one wears white. What is so seductive about June, like a name, is its potent images, which linger in the body as fatigue and relish. And in June, there’s something lush and unadulterated: Beery’s deadpan, Beaver’s bulging still-lifes, Seal’s oozing landscapes, McCarthy’s cockleshell ennui, and van der Stokkers’ pinkling wit. Being, at the point of seeing, mingles time with the joys and darker humors of the senses.
– Sam Korman, June 2015