Laura Owens makes wily, sensational paintings: Lines sweep into our peripheral vision, speed along as daringly as fearless schoolgirls sliding on ice, then burst unexpectedly into shapes—tiny spiraling volcanoes of color, wavering horizons, or bulky clouds. If Owens’s style—a surprising blend of mid-century formalism and Pop mischieviousness—evinces a cagey knowingness, it also reveals an unabashed delight in the voluptuousness of paint and form. With their light touch and winking palette (Rainbow Brites, avocado, harvest gold)not to mention Owens’s open, nonpolemical disposition—her paintings owe more to the seemingly nonchalant inventiveness of Mary Heilmann than to the cool metastyles of Jonathan Lasker or David Reed. One of a number of LA artists (including Monique Prieto, Steven Hull, Ingrid Calame, and Heidi Kidon) currently being touted as the latest rebirth of contemporary
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