Fimmel’s canvases
teem with a graffiti-like, anarchic flux. Her chimerical, free-associative
tableaux seem drawn from the well of some abyssal image-search, her
picture-quarry sorted, skinned, and recomposed to confound and inspire
allegorists’ and aesthetes’ eyes alike.
Take Kindling (2016), where a quartet of
spectral silhouettes hover above an elegant pair: one has its scalp skid-marked
by a seeping tonsure as the other — a Valkyrian shape-shifter — cradles her
companion’s forearm as a puckish cat totters by. The interlocutors seem placid
even as their environs dissolve, pell-mell, into a bricoleur’s psychedelic
dreamscape.
Like Siddhartha’s river, Fimmel’s profuse and lurid pictorial eddies compel us to ponder their whirling, mercurial currents.