Modest in scale, unpretentious in theme, the paintings at Los Angeles' David Stuart Gallery last week provided a rare moment of comic relief from the outsize banality that too often passes for high seriousness in the contemporary art whirl. There were voluptuous whores and prancing dandies in rollicking Yukon saloons. An old gramophone almost visibly rocked with some long-forgotten tune of the Old West, while near by a row of hilariously curved hoofers cancanned.
The bottom of a corpulent cutie, the label on a bottle of liquor, the barroom floor, all bore the enigmatic...
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