John Duffin’s Barrow cityscapes are bleak, garish-skied and strangely disquieting.
As if painted in the wake of some antiseptic holocaust, when one can now have a quiet, content life in the old, familiar and now quite empty city.
Sometimes the setting seems like a trap waiting to close on a lone human figure.
I wonder how much of this is intended. Maybe none of it. There’s a (perhaps not deliberate) lack of effect in these paintings that encourages me to conjure up all sorts of sinister meanings.
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