Byrne has a type. Or rather, he’ll paint you into one. Juno, Jorge, and Lucian dropped into the studio straight from a Just Stop Oil fundraiser. It’s now Jasper’s and Orlando’s turn to glue themselves to the gallery floor. Leave one hand free for the bubbly, though, Quentin. Move over, Naoise, you’re blocking the light.
One must first giggle that these throwaway acrylics have the power to inspire such frivolous contempt. Byrne’s square board portraits, uniform as though on a networking app’s grid, promote each sitter in their most studied spontaneity. The painter’s hand is the flattering filter called “Tuscan villa” or maybe “Granta”, so ubiquitous that calling it out is no use.
Yet that envy gives way to desire. Who wouldn’t fall for red bookish Joe, or MFA cheekbone Gary? Has art ever not been about class distinction and sex?
