Mimi Park

Abodes - Isolation II, 2024, acrylic and oil paint on linen and wood support, 33 x 55 cm.

I find it fascinating to look at abstraction. When I encounter a painting that holds my attention — though I’m not sure if it is decided before or after I see it — I immediately begin to wonder: What is going on here? There’s something compelling about asking this question while focusing on a confined space, like a small canvas. Is this white plane multiplying? Is it ascending or descending? Why is the left side of the band angled, evoking the movement of a ballerina? Is it reaching toward something, or has it simply been cut, like a piece of paper? How many forms are present—two or three? Are they converging or pulling apart?

Looking at art demands mental processing. My mind works like an AI before a painting, rapidly sifting through stored images and associations. This happens so fast that it almost feels like a physical reaction, like responding to a touch. I cherish this gentle prod that electrifies cells in my body.

As I scan my mental and physical archives, I search for connections. A Braque I once saw at an art fair comes to mind — one of his small fruit paintings. Then I think of Seurat’s drawings, his figures and shadows. Or Balthus’s Nude Before a Mantel at the Met, which I used to visit often. It’s funny that I thought of this particular painting of Balthus, which struck me as erect and still. What family resemblances, in the Wittgensteinian sense, link these images in my mind?

The painting I’m looking at is titled Abodes-Isolation II. I don’t know exactly what the artist intended with this title, but I recognize that isolation is a method used by both abstract artists and scientists. By isolating elements, one can observe them more clearly or perceive them from new angles. Robert Ryman isolated white, exploring its endless variations. Josef Albers fixated on the square, using it as a vessel for color. Is Patrick Michael Fitzgerald reflecting on these artistic acts, or is he contemplating human — perhaps even personal — isolation?

All of Fitzgerald’s forms, marks, and lines seem to be in a certain kind of motion. I would say that it is a pretty specific kind, in a way that they are so determined to be ambiguous. Anything that moves voluntarily has a soul, the ancient Greeks decided. Movement means quest — humans move in search of food, in pursuit of meaning. Does this very condition make us ambivalent about life itself?

As we expect in Fitzgerald’s work, the forms in this painting are unclear as to whether they are engaged in or detached from the movements they are in. I try to isolate ambivalent moments in my own life, hoping they are as wonderful as this one.