Something in this one, not quite a triptych but maybe still a 20th Century surrealist take on Hieronymus Bosch, but I don’t know. There’s a vibe. Just enough clarity to be startling but just distorted enough to create a sensation of perhaps a dull nausea. It’s a visceral reaction, at least for me, and upon repeated viewings both in-person at The Whitney and in enlargements online, the reaction is the same. It’s kind of disorienting and stomach-turning. The last part is hard to sort. Visual art has rarely given me that feeling of sickness. It’s a sort of despair that manifests like an intestinal sickness.

Nothing that Koerner would have wanted to hear, but just maybe he would enjoy it. It may have been his intent. Surrealism. Dada-ism. Why am I looking for sense and order that I don’t demand from life itself? Isn’t that what these two movements were about? Just reflections of whatever and whatnot? Fuck it, I know nothing about art except for how it makes me feel. Art theory eludes me. Film Theory. Music Theory. I know only what I feel.