Los Angeles

Walter Gabrielson

Cirrus Gallery

Walter Gabrielson’s perceptual philosophy is anchored somewhere in late Synthetic Cubism, his sense of content rooted in wringing the juices out of pervasive, middle-class, American real life, and, like a thousand other guys of similar situation but less quality, slightly cynical from ten years of operating in the fringes of the art world and in the semi-disreputable milieus of teaching and printmaking. His problem is one of quality vs. history—his art is, as the ghetto cigarette billboard says, “real rich and good,” but it isn’t programmed to change the short run history of painting, unless it is to stay figurative painting’s demise by convincing another serious artist or two that there’s some mileage on the old medium yet (real mileage, on a fresh road with new scenery, not dull distance on the beaten paths of academic realism, cute Pop McLuhanism, or decadent photo stuff). The question

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