PRINT Summer 1990


THERE'S AN OLD TRIBAL belief that you can lose your soul. Unable to connect with either the outside world or the inner, you’re out of yourself. Your links to family, nature, and religion are gone. Nothing means anything anymore. There seems little sense in thinking, feeling, or even praying. Loss of soul is akin to loss of self, and without self you are no longer human. You are simply not there. Because you have no will, you don’t even have the desire to die—though I believe you can die from the utter abjection of being no longer part of the same equation with life.

Llyn Foulkes’ Pop, 1985–90, is an extraordinary icon of dispossession. Part painting, part construction, part collage, it is made up of fragments of real clothing, real upholstery, and real imitation wood, all coalescing seamlessly with the painted surfaces of representation. The shallow, tableaulike picture space is strange

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