A human body is just the vehicle of our spirit, although it’s capable of an endless array of expressions and can have it’s own stage of beauty. In the end it’s only a bunch of muscles and bones handed over to the corruption of nature and time. One day, death will free our spirit again, leaving the flesh behind, used, wasted, beloved and celebrated.
In the art of Frances Turner we can witness the ‘great test of life’, the agony, it’s vitality, the beauty and its endless diversity. Her art is comparable with the struggle Francis Bacon reflects in his paintings, or the painfully accurate self-portraits of Dick Ket. But her sense of perspective is making things more bearable, or sometimes even humorous.
I can hardly believe this amazing artist is not with us anymore, tinkering with her twisted wonderful world. Frances Turner died three years ago, with her we lost a great artist, but her work is still here to capture us and to confront us with ourselves.
