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bow of color lies not above the landscape, but is diffused in splashes of color, charged leaves that are suspended about tall, slender trees, as if caught in a force field. The overpowering use of yellow no longer threatens to consume us. By “Pastel Sunset” that menacing sun is defused, and the day settles into a warm glow of calm and contentment. Like the raging sun in Nietzsche’s “Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” Lynnette’s sun “goes under.” As you stand in the middle of the gallery, trying to take in all her works at once, you know her sun is replenishing itself; in nature’s endless cycle it will return.
In the midst of this reverie and mystery the viewer is stunned by two paintings that violate the established mood. In “Julia’s Wish ... To Fly” the usual patterning of the landscape into socialized rectangularly is shattered by a Jungian flight of archetypal fancy. From the artist’s inner world comes a different landscape - a whirlwind collage of primal symbols of consciousness, the primal fire wisping upward to join the hair of the visionary oracle, the lion of alienation, the Indian drumskin with its four forces of the cosmos, and the eagle soaring into the house of the moon (or is it the sun?), a silhouetted reminder of the eternal tension of light and darkness.
What is this about? From across the room comes the hint of an answer: “Burst of Sunshine After Rain.” What burst? This landscape — dark and sombre greens, only freckled with yellow, gold and orange - is dominated by the primeval forest, imprisoned by ground mist and sky haze.
The consummate effect of these “transitions” of light is to suggest a struggle within the artist herself to understand how the external, natural landscape can ever be the expression of the longing of the human unconsciousness to “make of chaos something still.”
Enter Scott Robinson, delivered to this reviewer by the half-knowing exclamations of a gallery “regular”:
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