It should be clear by now

The photographs of Ryan McGinley almost make me want to dislike him, but are too intimate and atmospheric for me to do so. They are borderline faddish, due to the emaciated but beautiful nudes depicted, and their semi-snapshot quality. When he does not stray too far from a more traditional shooting method, where he clearly has a vision of what he wants his models to do and utilizes elements not present in a natural environment, he captures an energy that is not evident in his attempts at serendipity. To call them traditional by most means is still misleading, as McGinley uses otherworldly colors and contrast that would be considered “improper” to create often surreal and alien environments. His series Moonmilk is perhaps his strongest; depictions of nudes in caves bathed in washes of color, themselves often surrounded by glowing halos, such as the bright cyan of “Blue Breakdown” (2008). The way he communicates with his subjects is palpable in both how he combines their bodies with the surroundings and their own positioning. His union of person and environment imbue his photographs with surreal energy. Like the other artists I've mentioned, I'm drawn to McGinley's use of color and the organic feel of it all.

"Nick (Blood Falls)," Ryan McGinley, 2008. From his series Moonmilk.

I don't want to be clever right now but this guy is

Sergej Jensen has amazing control over form in his expressionistic fabric and paint collages. His pieces are always done on some fabric plane, with either other fabric cuts attached (“Wrong Truth,” 2004), or some treatment done to the surface, such as bleaching a shape onto the face (“Curtains,” 2004), or a combination of the two, and some other techniques as well. As with all artists I like, his aesthetics are what initially attracted me, before I consider whatever drives the creative process. Being a fan of abstract expressionism and minimalism particularly can lead me to artists whose visuals I love, but their concept is as unattractive as their end product is striking. This is typically what separates, for me, an artist that I “like” from one who enters my realm of “favorites.” Although I only recently discovered Jensen’s work, I was immediately struck by his muted colors and relatively simple, organic forms; the textures derived from his materials are also wonderful. Reading more about his process and work – it’s very utilitarian in that the fabric sources are inseparable from his concepts and how he often disassembles one piece to salvage material for another. I really respect art that strips down to what is necessary, and un-sanctifies itself, as Jensen does. Although the inspiration of an individual piece may not initially be evident, titles and looking at the materials used to create it often demystify it, or at least provide some context.

"Wrong Truths," 2004, Sergej Jensen. From White Cube's announcement of his 2007 show at the Douglas Hyde Gallery in Dublin. They're also much more eloquent than I in their review of his work.

"Spaceship Windows," Sergej Jensen. From swide.com's review of The Last Twenty Minutes of 2001 by Sergej Jensen.

White Cube has a great write-up on his work, and a ton of examples of his stuff.

This is where I will rest

No artist gives me as much pure visceral pleasure as André Derain. Firmly in the center of the Fauvist movement in France during the early 20th century, the colors and strokes Derain used in his portraits and river scenes are the most inspired and inspiring work I’ve come across. The Fauvists (“Wild Beasts”) were exceptional in both their use of brash color and manner in which they handled their generally conventional subject matter. I could explain Derain’s painting of boats in the Thames with Tower Bridge in the background, and my description would sound commonplace until one sees the bright pink sky and perspective of the vessels that evokes the experience of a vivid late afternoon while avoiding straightforward presentation.

"The Thames," 1906. André Derain. Courtesy of the Famous Artists Gallery.

Derain is simply the liveliest artist I’ve encountered. The thick patches of color he lays down energize every plane of his paintings –the background of “Charing Cross Bridge” (1906) with silhouettes of buildings in textured blues and greens, or the figures in the foreground of “The Turning Road, Lestraque” (1906) rendered in more neutral, earthy tones. Both are relatively insignificant details in the pieces, but contain no less vitality than other aspects. As someone who values attention to color above most anything else in a piece of visual art (even in regards to black and white photography or drawings), Derain demonstrates the true potential and power of such considerations. He possesses a level of energy I envy and strive for, to be as bold and confident and reckless as he.

I wonder what her bed looks like.

I first learned of Petah Coyne’s work when I saw her exhibit Everything That Rises Must Converge at MASS MoCA this summer, and I was initially unenthused about many of her sculptures (and still am); often huge sprawling masses with taxidermied birds and beasts among twisting growths of wax, string, and god knows what else. She makes references to countless cultures, historical events, religion, and anything else imaginable and reframes them in a way personally relevant to her, a process of drawing associations and finding new contexts. Unfortunately I am not immediately drawn by much of her aesthetic choices, what I would call “overblown” or “bloated,” although some of her simpler forms are striking and her more abstracted imagery leads to interesting and beautiful results.

Untitled # 1093 (Buddha Boy), 2001–2003. From arttattler.com's review of Coyne's MASS MoCA exhibit. This is one of the good ones.

Also unfortunate is that her photography is often relegated into the backseat of her canon . It was hard for me to believe that the two mediums were tackled by the same individual, since Coyne’s sculptures are elaborate and intricate, her photographs are simple, black and white, and blurry often to the point of unrecognizable. They’re photographs of motion in motion (she, as well as the subjects, are in transit), creating an unearthly feel for fairly mundane subject matter. It’s frustrating that it seems that Coyne has an entirely different approach between her photographs and sculptures; even conceptually they seem disparate even though they may address similar topics. For example, mortality is a theme she may attend to, but while her photographs convey transience, her sculptures are immovable. What can she express between the two media seem to contradict each other to some extent.

Untitled (#1039P-01) Bridal Series, 2001. From her exhibition at the Julie Saul Gallery in New York, late 2001.

I've been here before I think

Events that are unforeseeable when I begin to produce something new are what truly dictate the direction it heads, creating a set of laws that are significant for only the time and space my work takes up. These events are simply the patterns in which paint or ink dries, or wood grain, or how paper wrinkles, and they become the scaffolding for what is built. I’m partially at the behest of whatever environment I create for myself and that natural variation s that arise are my alternative to the traditional rules of perspective, shading and the likes. I found a vocabulary of mark making, in a similar manner to Sol LeWitt, primarily of short parallel lines, loops, and spikes (though these are limited mostly to drawing). I don’t think of my art as based on formulas, since my self imposed regulations evolve with the piece, and what dictates one idea may be of no importance for another. It’s a relationship that involves seeing what is expressed without my consent and how to manipulate and adapt to those expressions.

But there must be a point of genesis for these rules to be created in the first place, even if it’s simply putting down a layer of paint, where lumps and splotches will be born. I latch on to the inconsistencies and build on them, dismissing the pristine areas that become destined from that moment as insignificant, although they may arise at a later time to become a focus. Layering is an illustration of how I want mistakes to be exploited and how I want interactions between unrelated entities to come on their own. This is what has recently drawn me to monotype printing – it leaves no room for perfection and is a fertile expanse for variation to mature into a different beast entirely.

Of course there are other factors more directly under my control that I use in art. There are ideal colors, and I think they are the only thing that I truly strive for perfection with. There are forms which are necessary to come through for the purpose of the piece. There are times when I want to work with a medium that is unforgiving to such forgiveness. But letting the elements work in idiosyncratic ways, and let myself be present to record those idiosyncrasies is a process that I think summarizes anything that I would want to say in a more direct fashion, but in a manner that I find endlessly fascinating and surprising. If I enter with a thought to explore or a problem to be solved, it often gets buried, but the manner I go about burying it aligns with the solution with scary consistency, and (I think) more eloquently than I could say in any other attempt.