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.

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