The art I like is local. And in case you are wondering, Rothko was local, formed by New York. Warhol was too. Campbell’s soup flowed through his veins, he was brought up on it by his mother. Those cans ran deep.
And so it is with John Crome, particularly here. This is not a tourist spot. It is full of the things he became familiar with and what in the end he valued. Observed in such a modern way exactly 200 years ago and steeped in English light, precious little appears to be going on, unless you count the hand of mankind.
Triangles and squares, wood, tiles and brick are pressed and packed onto a damp industrial margin and mirrored in water. I love the reflection and intensity of this painting. Each component has found its level and so, at last, you can hear yourself think. And that, as we know, is the beginning of something limitless. Or you could just lean over and drop a stone in, plop. Either way this is not a bad place to start.
Humphrey Ocean, artist