Rosehill is an artist that seemingly lives in a far away memory. Looking at his art I feel a ghostly fuse light up in my soul – one that I only remember experiencing, yet I don’t remember being physically there when it sparked up.
A flashback of a moment you’ve certainly experienced. Yet when you try to envision it with more detail it frolics away – that’s because it was a dream all along.
An ethereal dream. That is what Rosehill’ art feels like to me.
Glowing with cold, bleak colors. Cold… yet still inviting enough to convince you to spare a moment inspecting them.
A cloudy overall picture that ironically enough contains sharp, immensely enthralling elements. Isn’t that the recollection you manage to gasp after being awoken from a deep, vivid dream?
Rosehill uses details that we recognize, right?
Arms… we use them to hug.
Eyes.. we use them to see.
Lips… we use them to kiss…
Yet by no means that isn’t all the artwork embodies. Rosehill takes it a leap further – he warps the so familiar body parts to be a part of a nameless creature. Arms start to get distorted – wrapping around the overall image, the limbs are filled with other body parts.. eyes, lips. They shouldn’t be there but they don’t deny that fact.
Matter of fact the estranged details are there to destroy the idea of an image that can be understood, an image that can be identified. The details roar infecting the artwork as parasites – creating a distorted projection of a godly madness that captivates the viewer, yet doesn’t scare him.
Because he has seen it.
He has definitely seen it.
In a dream.
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