In a perfect world, there is nothing between us but air. Actually, less than that. Tracing a through line from the pleasing angles of domestic architecture to the penciled contentment of horse girls, Kremer has arrived at the beginning. Larger than life bodies twist, suck moan, and grasp. Roling mounds of flesh are intimated by the range of hues borne of generous mama ochre, earth's oldest known pigment; the color of all fleshes, bloods, and secretions, mixed up and smeared around with uncanny grace.
The drudgery of creative professionalism. A mix--‐up in the wash. Your best black shirt now looks like the skin of an old bronze statue, weepy with corrosion. There’s that jacket that makes you look interesting. Some tchotchkes on the desk. The obsolete deftness with which you made emoticons, now quaint as shorthand, or flag semaphore.
Chinatowns from Los Angeles to Antwerp to Dubai attest to creeping homogeneity of contemporary cities, though on his expansive canvases these materials drip, drizzle, suspend, and splash to form an altogether more ethereal stew... comet tails, newborn stars, bulbous charcoal storms, and the odd sexy dribble.