I first became familiar with Timothy’s work more than 15 years ago, now nearer to 20. I was living in Los Angeles when he and a friend of his had traveled in a van to L.A. from Albuquerque to show his work in a West Hollywood coffee shop. I must admit here and now that I was quite taken by Mr. Cummings, and of course his work. His earlier works included small paintings and brilliantly detailed puppets constructed of bleached and painted tree branches from his own back yard in New Mexico, dressed in a colonial-style, comedia del arte, flamenco dancers, etc. We kept in touch a little while after that, but then I moved to New York and we lost contact. Years later when I moved to San Francisco, I was talking to a very good friend of mine who mentioned the name of Timothy Cummings. “Could it possibly be the same Timothy?” I thought. Well it turned out in fact that it was. Timothy’s paintings have evolved magnificently in the years. I’ve seen him work in a 19th Century portraiture style to flat-out surreal scenes of the macabre. His darkly imagined nymphs tweak each other’s nipples, they fly in the magical realism of baby blue skies, they disappear, they reappear, their skin full of holes, their eyes full of fire and disdain. A child, masked, runs down a long empty azure hallway, recalling De Chirico and of course Dali. Since that time in L.A., Timothy’s lived in San Francisco and his work has been seen the world over. He’s become avidly collected and shows in major art institutions, here and abroad.
Posted by carol the aphid eater at 10:32 PM