If the conceit of this show is that darkness reveals, then its obscure palette is unevenly mixed. Mikulovičiūtė’s nostalgias, measured by pigments fading, are masterly: grandma’s linens, fruit from the orchard, and the Madonna construct an interiority hard to convey with light. Falardeau’s busts – a golden Alice and a clay Pan – turn highlights and shadows into erotic charge with a clumsy contrast of human glow and predatory grit.
But the gallery is overexposed; Sasseron’s and Williams’s oils – despite themselves – reveal too much, while Shi’s icon paintings – try as they might – find no still corner for meditation in this company. This is what it is to live a life of full transparency: catch the wrong end of the spectrum and forever remain in the dark.
