by Gary Michael Dault
Treloar’s crowns are lush, lustrous, buoyant museums of iconographic plenitude.When they are filled, they rise like the sun. A sun that never, however, sets.
By Gary Michael Dault
I came into the Drake Hotel coffee shop a couple of weeks ago and there was anarchist-wildman-artist Istvan Kantor at a window table in the sunlight and when he smiled a greeting—for we hadn’t seen one another for a couple of years—there was suddenly a visionary gleam in the coffee shop, an effluence of light that made looking at him feel like looking directly at the grille of a 1948 Buick.