Janine Iversen begins with the knowledge that her paintings resist resolution. They unfold in the space between sensation and execution—where the hand misaligns with the eye, and the image refracts back at the viewer, never quite stable. Swirls, openings, and apertures pulse across her surfaces like shifting weather systems. Each canvas is an event in motion, full of flickering thresholds that tease recognition before sliding back into pure material. Ovals might suggest nostrils or thumbprints, while smirks and pupils dissolve into abstract gestures, mocking any attempt at definition. Her process is fast, physical, and constantly evolving—canvases are rotated, scraped, reworked, and occasionally undone. What remains are traces of velocity: the flick of a brush, the aftershock of a decision, the energy of something just arrived. Scale varies, but each work is held in a state of temporary resolution, alive for the moment it holds together. Rather than offering fixed images, Iversen dissects the mechanics of looking—how a stroke becomes a signal, how form emerges only to vanish. Her paintings don’t just depict perception; they demand it, rewarding viewers who are willing to meet them with equal intensity and attentiveness. ...
