A critique by Craig Coss:
I'm tempted to compare your figure's legs to the other verticals: the piers that evoke a dock or perhaps a rustic playground. There's something dreamy or surreal about the background, the stars and the ampersand, the hexagons above, and under her feet. So I wonder if it is a memory of adolescence: maybe wearing short shorts for the first time, and feeling more conscious of one's legs than ever before—as if the greater part of one's self is legs, legs. The feet, small for the legs but large for the rest of her torso and head, might betray a teenage awkwardness of step and her place in the world. The verticals and horizontals in the piers and bars are reflected in the puzzle arrangement of the rectangular panels, but does each composition stand on its own? I don't think so. So I wonder why you chose to fragment the overall image, unless it points to a psychological fragmentation in the life or psyche of the figure, our protagonist. Certain elements are bridges between fragments (e.g., dots, stars, hexagons, foreground), while other background patterns or colors are isolated to one panel. Why? What purpose does that choice serve, in the meaning of the piece? Those are questions I'm asking. The hidden, moonlike circles at the bottom imply other worlds below the figure, and add to the dreaminess of it, as if unconscious complexes (in the original Jungian sense) hide in this figure's inner world—both dark and light forces that might later surface... The sharp diagonal of the surface she stands on doesn't point to any part of the image that pays off for me, and that's a disappointment to the eye: if my vision is directed somewhere, I want there to be a reward for following that direction. The bright pink and turquoise sky, and the scattered pips and patterns, with the style of the clothing, all say 1980s to me, but the drips (?) of violet and lavender, which quickly become reds like dripping blood or hanging nerves and sinews reinforce my impression that under the bold display of legs, this 1980s youth has another world beneath her—descending darker, over a sharp, blade-like edge, into a more haunting unconscious, where the water or the ground is a vast inner world of constellations and unconscious drives. Will her hand ever reach that bar? Is it as stable as she might hope? Her reflection in the sharp surface of glass or steel dances off to the side, perhaps foreshadowing that her slight lean toward the edge might become one day a plummet off that edge. For me, it is a portrait of the naivete of 1980s adolescence: so powerful, confident, and yet dangerously fragile: a flower growing on the edge of a precipice.