Tom Monson wears his art on his sleeve.
Monson at work.
He is a postmodern scavenger, in his words “projecting value onto something un-valuable, like redemptions.” Tom turns kitschy thrift store finds into gems by adding bittersweet Maurice Sendak style characters, often placing them in grievous situations in a humorous way. In “slogan” a small plaque’s original saccharine image is over painted with a simply drawn nude that stares blankly at the viewer, his arm severed on the floor Monty Python style, the words “Win Some, Lose Some” fade into the background behind him. These altered appropriations confront universal emotions, but are also unabashedly autobiographical. Monson’s show at the PoetHouse last November called “Images that Breethe, frum thawts that bur^rn” (misspelling intentional) presented pieces that dealt blatantly with betrayal, hypocrisy and grief. In one piece, “Untitled,” a bright red snake is hacked in pieces and bleeding, X’s for eyes.
