It's remarkable how recognizable the goings-on in Michael Lewis'
paintings are, considering how bizarre a description of them sounds:
figures in black and white attire, sprawled out on floors or collapsing
in each other's arms in barren (well, aside from the odd potted plant)
settings, apparently offices, storage spaces and conference rooms. This
is, of course, real, and really banal, stuff – post-millennial
corporate culture, wherein gurus are hired to inspire “teams” with
workshops and retreats, and bosses are encouraged to mine the
psychological depths of their minions – and not, say, a rendering of
the Jonestown Massacre. The surreality of it all is why Lewis is
interesting; a recent article in Border Crossings compares him
to Edvard Munch, an unmistakable influence that suggests Lewis sees
modern life for the frightening allegory that it is. This is the stuff
of nightmares. Indeed, Lewis paints the way nightmares look, or rather
the way they look when we remember them: the values are dark, with
indeterminate colours predominating, mostly grey-blues, blue-browns,
occasionally orange-pinks or orange-browns; the figures all have the
same mushy, unhealthy, Gumby-esque builds, and have blurred, shadowy
eyes as if they're wearing masks. Unsettling, to be sure, and a little
unsubtle; there's a polemical, evangelical strain to Lewis' work which
bleeds through the murkiness, and reminds one of an Alphaville or Pink
Floyd video. This seems intentional: how, Lewis seems to be saying,
could our dystopian clichés have materialized so quickly, so quietly,
so impeccably?