Spring 1986

Viorel Marginean’s painting “Spring” is like a visual poem, made with colour and the joy of putting paint on a surface. The painting feels like a landscape, but not the kind that shows you exactly what’s there. Look closely and you’ll see it’s made up of dabs and dashes of paint, almost like mosaic. Green is the background colour, but little spots of red, yellow, and blue pop up, like flowers pushing through the grass. The paint seems thin and juicy, almost like watercolor, which makes it feel light and airy. I keep coming back to the feeling that this painting isn’t so different from some of Milton Avery’s landscapes. Both artists give us a world that’s not exactly real, but feels deeply true. What is “Spring” anyway, if not a feeling? And what is painting, if not the art of making feelings visible?