Michaël Borremans



What is the world called where subjects of fine art exist? Surely it’s some other dimension where time has stopped. The thing is, over there in Oz or Narnia or wherever, it has stopped in some sort or extraordinarily thoughtful way. Everyone seems to be pondering some big sad capitalized topic like What a Cosmic Disappointment Human Nature Is. Or, Why Did My Brother Eat my Favorite Puppy?

Anyway, be aware: if you want to be admitted into the Fine Art Club and get a monogrammed velvet smoking jacket, you have to make everyone in your paintings look gut-punched with pathos. (Now you know why Norman Rockwell is still sitting on the Fine Art Club’s steps whistling at passing girls.)