The vastness and nuance and intelligent, rough beauty of John Dubrow’s paintings, the rhythmic turmoil which roils their cakes of paint, tempts one to conceive of them as natural wonders. How are such things made? These works sometimes put me in mind of the forces of nature that combine to create hurricanes and mountain ranges. In the deep geography of Dubrow’s works there seems to be no mediation, no polish, no editorial mercy to bridge, for the viewer’s sake, between what Dubrow was moved to make and what Dubrow meant by it. The painter’s long toil — these works require years to complete — is rewarded with an extraordinary immediacy. He does not translate for our sake. We meet him entirely on his ground.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence