How varied and strange the paintings of Forrest Bess are. Wonky black tables stumbling in a room. Rows of identical mustachioed faces and rows of dicks and something like a snowflake made of string. A face in a golden flower, if it is a flower, in front of a mesa under a red sky. Sometimes they are ungraspable. The kinds of optical disturbances you get when you press your knuckles against your closed eyelids. Creatures in a field: are they dogs? Cattle? Sheep? Arching over them is either the plugged head of a penis, a bicycle seat or something else entirely.
