I’ve no idea what Bill Lynch (1960 – 2013) meant by his incantation about the meaning of art, using words ending in -ation. The journalist isn’t helpful in contextualizing the comment, writing only that it’s “taken from a letter to a friend in the 1990s.” She adds, “It is surprisingly hard to discover very much about him… He died of cancer aged 53, but his inner life appears private, unknown even to the curator of this show.”
Born in Albuquerque, Lynch studied art at Cooper Union in New York, lived in California for a time, and ended up in Raleigh, North Carolina.
Old plywood, used planks, the top of a table pocked with woodworm: he found a way of painting on this hard and resistant substrate as if it were as light as parchment. And his brushwork, moreover, is rightly described as calligraphic. Owls, hawks, tangled blossoms, the pale discs of honesty seeds hanging like silver moons from skeletal black boughs: his art has all the delicacy of nature, combined with a swirling, stuttering, sometimes wayward abruptness.
(Laura Cumming, “Bill Lynch: The Exile of Dionysus review — the greatest American artist you’ve never heard of?” theguardian.com, 8-21-22)
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