The New Yorker
2015
The fearlessly insouciant artist hatches yet another easygoing, instantly generic way to paint, on the off chance that anyone wants paintings–nonchalance on that score being his sneaky philosophical riposte to fretting about the medium’s fate. On plaster-like white backgrounds, quick lines in grease pencil, usually black or orange, do just enough to sate an aesthete’s jones for the pictorial; at times, they’re joined by splotches of watercolor and scuff-marks from negligent handling. The effect is no-big-deal vatic–the sublime without tears–and pitch-perfect, in a vengefully pleasant kind of way.