The life of many painters is buried in unease. Repairing daily to the devotions of the studio, tending the bitter, artisanal trade in solitude, the painter’s fatal meeting with self is a ritual of terror.
How David Schoffman remains so vacuously superficial is one of life’s great mysteries. A flashy, spry bon-vivant whose handmade shirts from Astor & Black and suits from Warwick Hall betray a clawing refinement and a Galilean lake’s-worth of thin-skinned vanity.
His character does not square with his painting.
The same beaked promontory from where he clasps his cuffs come the most complex, poetic and moral pictures of our century. The image above from his “Body Is His Book” series is a miraculous excavation from the unplowed grit of our contemporary discourse. Its high seriousness is unembarrassed and unapologetic.
Will the real David Schoffman please be revealed!
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