The title Entropvisions is in homage to my mother, the poet and art critic, Harriet Zinnes. In 1990 New Directions published a collection of her poems titled Entropisms, a word she made-up combining entropy - the tendency toward disorder - and tropism - the growth towards or away from a stimulus. Similarly, my short reviews combine entropy and tropism by suggesting growth towards a vision of art from the chaos of the art world. Through the back door, my title also pays homage to my physicist father, Irving Zinnes, whose long discussions with my mom got her thinking about entropy and tropism in the first place.

Bill Jensen at Vito Schnabel
I’m envious of Bill Jensen, not just because he knows how to use color and paint, but, perhaps even more intensely, because he seemingly effortlessly wanders the intangible mysteries of essence, of being and life, of the blending of corporal into transcendental. The paintings in his recent show at Vito Schnabel, spanning the last 14 years, paint the unnameable colored air and light that linger long after someone has left. In these paintings, the past, present and future hover within the eternal continuity of the cosmos as they float through us all, if we could only reach them. Bill Jensen has reached this timeless place, has stayed within its openness, where he – and therefore we as viewers – coexist within this midst of forming, breathing the soul of the universe. Deeply rooted in Taoism, Jensen has made paintings from within the Taoist understanding of "Appearance occurring of itself," where things just “are,” effortlessly – but achieved only with great effort – in harmony with all existence. The large diptychs and triptychs, with one or two of the panels painted in rich blacks, violets, soft yellows and hints of unsaturated greens, and the other panel in mostly white with drawn somethings, are dialogues where, as Jensen says, “Form (Substance) is arguing with shadows,” as if the spirits are embodied by the colored panels, and the shadows by the drawn lines. Though often worked on for years, the paint is thinly painted, with delicate washes of air, opaque strokes, and intricate overlays that look bumpy but actually are smooth, most likely made flat by scraping, rubbing and wiping out. It is as if the paint, glowing, transparent yet solid too, emerges from within itself, applied by the physical hand of the painter but also the miracle of accident, is itself experiencing the Tao. Unfortunately, the exhibition just closed on Saturday. I must apologize for not being able to see it earlier, but though I can’t recommend seeing the show at this late date, I still feel compelled to at least send out some photos and words.