Affixed to the chairs are planks and poles. Attached to the planks are a few flowerpots, and out of those and numerous other openings sprout long-stemmed tulips in splendidly incongruous black and white. There’s a tenuousness to the whole assembly, a sense of momentary equilibrium. A bowl balanced on a stick brings to mind the spinning plates of circus performers. Putting that prop next to what looks like a fragmented easel, Redwood links one kind of stage magic to another, the painter’s. He too is an entertainer, skilled at lavish gestures, a manufacturer of wonder, adept at ensnaring the eye and tickling the mind.
Redwood’s work has huge surface appeal: He paints in a palette of metal, wood, dirt and water, erosion, poison and rust, the acrylic pigment thinned but the colors intense. His brush strokes feel dimensional in themselves, contrived parodies, perhaps, of a straight-from-the-tube rawness. Their colossal snaky lines wind across the canvas and double back like the labyrinthine path of intestines.