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?

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