Everything began with a sparkling meeting during an opening reception in the gallery. I keep in mind Sharon’s look full of sparks straight in my eyes, and her enthusiasm, Michael’s serene presence by her side, their invitation to visit their workshop. A secret den. The place of an obsession.
Michael and Sharon are one voice, one artist. They work underground and underneath. Their production is graduated, stored, piled in the basement or hangs on the walls which exude the color; the paint is an act, repetitive as a beat of The B-52s. It throws us wall to wall. It sticks us and slams us. It calls us and sends back to us of layer in layer, clear line in a forest of signs. It calms us and manhandles us.
The geometries overlap in the chaos as our orderly thoughts recover with great difficulty the escapades of our drives.
One, two, one, two, one two, three, the look circulates, the voice stops; we resume. Proto-post-punk! The Damn authentic Las Vegas flies away, held up by the sound of both Demcsaks’ turbo drive, fast and furious Gremlins with a brush creating lines and colors… with a smile.
