Laney 1972

James Brooks made *Laney* with paint, and you can see the dance of its making right on the surface. There’s red, a daub of viridian, a slash of black, and a dollop of light green. Imagine Brooks in his studio, maybe with some jazz on, just letting the colors collide and converse, pushing them around until they find a kind of harmony or tension that feels right. You know, I get the sense that Brooks wasn't trying to paint any "thing" in particular but more like capturing a feeling, an energy, or a fleeting moment, just like trying to catch smoke. That one big, black brushstroke is so bold and confident, but then you notice the softer edges around the red, like he was second-guessing himself, smudging it out, then diving back in. Painters are always talking to each other, across time and space. Brooks knew his Abstract Expressionist peers, but he also knew his Mondrian, his Miro, and his Kandinsky. We all stand on each other's shoulders, and the conversation continues.