By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
Near the entrance of the gallery soars Mericarp, a 10-foot-tall towering dandelion with menacing snaggletoothed leaves. The industrial powder-coated marine aluminum and galvanized sculpture is painted black.
His tarantula-black and powder-white woodcut-style paintings and drawings are starkly graphic and exude a weird Disney cartoon vibe.
Some of the landscapes depict monstrous flora engulfing a shrinking copse of trees; others feature ornate baskets brimming with prickly blooms, evoking the Brothers Grimm.
The dandelion is a recurring motif. Galbulus — the artist gives his pieces scientific names signifying parts of plants — portrays one of the nettlesome weeds as its seeds burst upon a manicured lawn.
In these sometimes unsettling images, Morrison's looming plants and trees often drown a tiny solitary shack or windmill in the far background.
Despite their familiarity, these images remain rife with a pervasive melancholia resonating with muffled gloom. They are simply gorgeous, immaculately executed works that tweak perception with a skull-humping finesse.