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Kaz Oshiro is firstly a painter. This is easy to forget. Ultimately, however, these objects are just paint, Bondo, canvas and stretchers, and though Oshiro always leaves one side of them open to reveal their structure or armature, one still strangely believes in them as objects and not as paintings.
He now imagines whole paintings, guiltless monochromes, twisted in actual space. Oshiro does not build these works from visual phenomena as, say, Ellsworth Kelly responds to the interactions of certain colours or tries to mimic a shadow thrown by a barn door. Nor is he intent on experimenting with abstract form and materials, as, say, Imi Knoebel does in his idiosyncratic enterprises.
Instead, Oshiro has made paintings that exist as complete, rather ordinary monochromes first — finished and resolved thoughts — and then they somehow come into contact with, are distorted and torqued by, and ultimate adhere to, the gallery in which they find themselves.
One feels as if the paintings flew in and stuck to the walls in unusual positions, like pieces of paper in a windstorm. The paintings are paintings, built to be where they are, but in being placed in such a way, able to cant and play with the gallery, they paradoxically seem more imaginative, more prone to beauty and flights of fancy. There is no visual trick to the work, just painting opening a space for itself on its own terms and having fun.