Eric Fortune’s introspective paintings make me a touch melancholy. Part of that is the content: iconic girls in balletic poses with implied, sad goals, rendered with milky color. But it is also the very existence of such a person as Mr. Fortune, who is 32 years old and until a few days ago, totally unknown to me. Bratty yahoos like the kid who recently vomited on a Mondrian (Google it; I refuse to give that bore any more linkage) are more widely recognized as “artists” than the ramen-supping drudges who can pluck scenes like this from their live, nude brains. On demand, even. As if function, skill, and work ethic were somehow antithesis to appreciation.
But I am not yet bitter. Merely tangy.