December 01, 2017, 9:11am
I have said it before, but one of my greatest joys these days is watching the careers of artists featured in New American Paintings explode. Working with curators, we review the work of more than 6000 artists every year and try to identify those who are exceptional. We take this job VERY seriously.
The way the art world is structured these days, there is, perhaps, no bigger stage to present your work than Art Basel Miami. Thousands of art lovers attend each year and just about every major collector and curator from around the world is there. There are at least two-dozen of our alumni on view this year, which is extraordinary. Some of these artists, such as Jordan Casteel and Loie Hollowell, have gained international attention just in the past twelve months. If you receive New American Paintings, as hundreds of collectors and curators do, you would have discovered their work before they entered the gallery system. Join us. – Steven Zevitas, Publisher
June 06, 2016, 8:18am
There are the trees, dark forms rising imperiously, and that's ok though, right?, a trick of the light, ombre over eyes, the natural failures of rods and cones—except they are so fucking black, atrous, really, black as coal, carbon, the remnants of fire, a sharp melange of serrations, selachian arcs, brachial bunches of alveoli, histological stains of striated muscle, pied abrasions, a forest seared into a wall, ashen memory, holocaustic photograph of a nuclear flash-lamp—and there is the sky, brilliant orange, too orange, unnaturally orange, not the color of monarch butterflies or poison dart frogs or innumerable other toxic lifeforms, not the color of citrus or lantanas or marigolds—dreadfully close to poppies, however—but safety orange, menacing safety orange, the kind commercial fishermen wear to be plucked from the black maw of the sea or hunter's place like a cuirass to protect against the accidental rending of human flesh, orange like the apocalypse, like literal and burning heat death, like the first and last glow of an existential risk, Nacarat Extinction, and it is apparent that East of Eden lies a place alien, fearful, sublime, hot and vibrating like catgut, verdant shoots even now erupting from the carbon and man-overboard-orange, and in the curve of the trees against the sky there is something pareidolic, a ghost in the nature, the SunSetter brow of an emaciated gorilla, perhaps, or, chest towards us, stereoscopic eyes thankfully looking away in majestic profile, the lean form of an ancient, savage, leopard, soft-gummed and eyeteeth innervate with pain, the kind which drags us, supposed Apex Animals, Fauna-cum-Gods, screaming into the impenetrable Cimmerian night, Jim Corbett save us!, sacred heart and sacred gun, the snuffing out of the flashes in the pan that turned the trees to cinder and the sky to fear. – B. David Zarley, Chicago Contributor