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Liam's work is the evolution of his lifelong habit of doodling. Vast repetition and an innate understanding of colour create a sense of oddity which is both sophisticated and childlike.
Under rows of Norfolk Pines just north of the fortieth parallel in the
teeth of a thrashing sou-wester behind the doors of an instant coffee brick
veneer garage left of the quarter panels of a 71 Valiant Charger Liam toils
night after night in a soft focus glow of red wine teeth on mad geometrics that
threaten to channel the busted frequency signal on a mid-century Rank Arena TV
or the visual equivalent of a Marshall feedback scream.
Lines that invoke the repetition of a scratched LP on a scale that would
induce hand-cramp in lesser artists or those with no answer to what-are-you-doing-dad, turn-that-shit-down and the fraught moment of near perfection just before a small Murphy flings the bolognese.
These lines bring human chaos to heel, captured within the bounds of a
handmade frame buzzed down from doorways benches stud frames school blackboards or stumps.
Inside that narrow timber a punchup barely held in check between ice
cream colour melody and massed formations of line and pattern muscling rhythm
underneath and outside that same timber the expanses of a wall that work to
draw the eye into the music so the feet do the rest.
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