Jason Fox

The New Yorker
February 2, 2009

The deeply talented Fox has modulated his formerly cartoonish style into varieties of semi-abstraction that are at once intense and devil-may-care. Painted, mostly, in strident Chinese red, brushed with browns as filmy as shadows, the pictures melt hints of faces, figures, and objects into minimally effortful gestural cadenzas. An effect of pressured but nonchalant subjectivity suggests snatches of normal conversation at a heavy metal concert or stray thoughts in a burning building. Fox’s is an uncannily companionable art, which can seem to have been waiting for you to show up. It’s mind-reading quality recalls the best early work of David Salle, minus the archness.