Randall Schmit

Like a cybernetic David Salle, Randall Schmit runs amok in an art theme park but substitutes an unabashed corniness for the usual post-Modern irony. To confront his “Artificial Corridors” series, 1993–94, is to rummage through an attic storeroom of vaguely clichéd art-historical images. Each of his “corridors” blithely makes a jumble of his personal canon. Taken separately, the paintings are a lot of fun to look at, but as a group they can seem gimmicky. In terms of content they seem overelaborated and somewhat precious; their overriding interest lies in Schmit’s compositional declensions. Stylistic pastiches of representational and abstract forms, Schmit’s works are a mad tapestry of bright colors and colliding structures. It’s a channel-surfing world out there, Schmit seems to say—catch the wave and ride it.

In Artificial Corridor XI, 1994, a woman who could be straight out of a painting

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