Gary Hume
Francis
1997
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In this show, London-based painter Gary Hume continues his
exploration of slick surfaces, outlandish color schemes and
distorted figures in works that seem possessed of a kind of
reckless ambition to change prevailing notions of beauty. A
number of the 12 recent large (most are about 7-by-5-feet)
enamel-on-aluminum paintings in this show recall billboards or
subway poster ads for clothing or perfume. Unlike the
commercial ads, Hume's images initially are often repelling
rather than inviting. Any image that is truly new and original can
be hard to get used to.
The dramatic figure in Angel, for instance, wears a jaundiced
halo. Unlike any celestial being I could imagine, the work
conjures an image of a sickly rock star in concert. Peacock is a
richly hued panel, but the barely discernible peacock feather is
rendered in shades of dark brown and black that one would
not associate with the brilliant bird. The landscape In the Park is
also strangely disconcerting. This haunting work shows a
white moon shining of over three phallic-shaped leaves. But
the beige, red and green leaves appear far removed from
nature; they have the unmistakable look of vinyl.
Some works, such as the abstract Sea Horse, are surprisingly
lyrical. This painting features a soothing expanse of turquoise
and blue splattered with white, traversed by a thin, straight
horizontal yellow line. In contrast, there is nothing calming
about the large figure paintings. Some of them recall Warhol's
portraits, although Hume's images are far more caustic. The
painting Francis, for instance, filled by a misshapen round face
with sagging yellow eyes and thin brown lips, strikes me as an
acerbic homage to Francis Bacon. Hume may owe nothing to
Bacon, but their works are often similarly disturbing.
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