Man with muscles points to two tables, left and right: “‘Table Diana Copperwhite’ to your left, ‘Table Aileen Murphy’ to your right.” Seated at Table Aileen Murphy you strain to see the Copperwhites through those oily-pools-of-water-beneath-leaky-car neon galaxies that drench booth in celestial metaphor, and most of all, that veil of regularity that summons distance—Diana has been a frequent exhibitor of late. At Table Aileen Murphy painting is served fresh, crusty, viscid, waxy, fragrant, curious and, considering those celestial skies in the distance, down to earth. Last few outings at KK have seen Aileen Murphy as designated wingwoman (at least she’s designated you might argue and to the credit of KK). But all the same Table Aileen Murphy continues to be paired with regular female soloists, so the experience of her work has always been in terms of two, comparison, retreat, irregularity. Situated by office that hides in plain sight, unless you’re a pal, a regular, gets one thinking that artists should not aspire to be regulars, when you are tolerated rather than loved. Artists ought to miss exhibiting before they exhibit, and we as peers, as viewers, should be missing them, wondering what became of them. They should be on milk cartons at breakfast not wanted posters at dusk. Aileen Murphy has been on the horizon for some time, but never here, always over there as wingwoman and student in Germany, but a painter that could crack out big painting if given both wings to wing it. She’s over there again at KK but at least her paintings are crashing on the shore over there. And there's lots of wiping out at Table Aileen Murphy at KK, and man with muscles seems too fussed about his own appearance to care to clean up the cumulative mess. So what you get is what you get: fits and starts of sinewy drawing and scalping with paint brush that leaves paint dry, caked, spattered, minced, eviscerated, disemboweled, bloody, bodily, in parts, but fully embodied—painting with organs, tongues, ears, innies and outies, soles of shoes, like Guston before, who smoked and ate while painting. It’s brink of the edge stuff, painting turned inside out, skin and soul. Not in the least virtuoso, or knowing or showing off, but inward, innards. Sniff. A lot of it is fucking up, left, kept; self-criticism as fruitfully productive: colour. C o l o u r. Graduate gowns and tasteful tongues are given up for a dunce hat and dribble. At Table Aileen Murphy painting is closer to itself, unsure, insecure on an atomic level. Depressed confetti. Joy on replay rather than trauma on repeat. Asked the question “Was it good for you?” Your reply is, “Don't know?” A question for a question. Perfect. Good painting is hard come by and hard to overcome. Minds haven't been made up yet “wingwoman”, but guts have. 

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