Emmeric James KONRAD
Do you see Bacon? Baselitz? Roualt? Eighty years ago he might have been George Grosz. One hundred seventy years ago he might have been Daumier. Three hundred years ago, Hogarth. Further: Breughel, Bosch.
Always there are the painters who capture the flesh. Ah, the flesh. Fresh, firm, frail, foibled, foolhardy, flowering, frantic, faded. The fleeting corporeal beauty; the certain, sometimes youthful, descent into corruption and decay. Son of a surgeon, Konrad proves himself anatomist in more ways than one. Cataloging the convoluted politics of carnality, flower afire, alternately frenzied, frightened. Hardly negative. The message, the news, and the wonder is: Passion Persists! Entropy denied. The human triumph!