By Marke B.
Jeff Linder
I’m a big admirer of SF (by way of Kansas and NYC) artist Kevin P. Mosley‘s work. The bright, flickering patterns of his aplique-on-found-glass output somehow convey to me a feeling of camp guignol: vibrantly psychedelic yet rigidly hallucinogenic — kind of like what I imagine pill-popping housewives from ’50s movies might see when the high kicks in and the children are screaming from the solarium. On Easter. If those housewives were trapped in gay men’s bodies.
Rosa Jimenez-Vasquez
Strangely, the works are also almost soothing to get lost in — they register any changes in light impeccably; I especially like them on golden-sunny late afternoons — and they’re pretty like a little girl’s hat. His latest batch of works, which Mosley calls “portraits,” is receiving a monthlong showing at Magnet in the Castro.