"Fly, Fly, Can I?" by H, Tucson, Dixon Ticonderoga on 20# paper

George Rodrigue had his Blue Dog, Georgia O’Keefe had her flowers, and apparently, Tucson upstart, H, has her triangles. I haven’t seen such a blatant abuse of white space since the Serra Sculpture (shown here). It’s always unfortunate when an artist decides to serve the “hook” rather than fish for something more nourishing, but H’s “Fly, Fly, Can I?” is as hard on the eyes as it is the soul. The merciless abuse of the triangle not only creates a horribly unbalanced page, but suggests absolutely nothing more than H’s apparent inability to draw any other shape. If forced to find a redeeming quality in the work, it might just be the curious addition of a Jack O’Lantern in the woman’s stomach. If this reviewer had to guess, and with this piece anything is possible, I would say it suggests that our mad hero was impregnated by goblins while waiting for The Great Pumpkin.