Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Gatekeepers, 2025
Oil on canvas, 48 × 60 in
© 2025 James M. Bond.
Photo: T.J. Van Dyke
A pair of stylized Great Danes in bronze tones sit in profile before a dark, veined backdrop referencing Nero Portoro marble. During the exhibition, where it was collected, the composition echoed Art Deco entrance sculptures flanking a doorway while the rug installation amplified a sense of grandeur and “red-carpet” arrival. Positioned near the gallery entry, the work functioned as a ceremonial threshold: a welcome and a set of sentinels.
Exhibition Description:
Two bronze Danes guard the door, Nero Portoro veining runs behind them like lightning on a black sky. As you go around them, you meet the invitation and the test of their gaze. You straighten. Your shoes learn to whisper.
Others arrive, too. A woman in vermillion drifts straight toward the bar as if it were her hunting ground. Another carries in her sadness like it belongs to her evening. You recognize a man in cufflinks and a black bowtie from somewhere notable, and he seems intent on making sure you don’t forget. Two women lean toward one another at the threshold, conspiratorial already. In front of you, the ceremony of a phosphorous flame flares; beside it, the intrusion of a photographer’s flash cuts the dark. Each step forward, the hum of jazz grows breathier, as though the air itself is tuning itself for tonight’s show.
Now, you’re in a story where objects keep score. A glass is a clock, its liquid dropping with minutes you can’t refill. Cigarette smoke drifts like gossip. The bar churns steady as a machine: cocktails lined, poured, broken, remade with repetition and ritual. Around the room, exotic pets and too-grand furniture sit with the same authority as their owners.
This isn’t just a gallery of paintings. It’s an environment where art slips off the wall and into the room. Power, perception, glamour, and rot mingle in the open. Social theatre unfolds at every table and in every corner; objects themselves become gossip. You leave not with answers, but with speculations about what each figure is doing, thinking, hiding, or confessing, and about what the room has taken from them.
Cross the threshold and you find yourself In the Company of Paintings.
Gatekeepers, 2025
Oil on canvas, 48 × 60 in
© 2025 James M. Bond.
Photo: T.J. Van Dyke
A pair of stylized Great Danes in bronze tones sit in profile before a dark, veined backdrop referencing Nero Portoro marble. During the exhibition, where it was collected, the composition echoed Art Deco entrance sculptures flanking a doorway while the rug installation amplified a sense of grandeur and “red-carpet” arrival. Positioned near the gallery entry, the work functioned as a ceremonial threshold: a welcome and a set of sentinels.
Exhibition Description:
Two bronze Danes guard the door, Nero Portoro veining runs behind them like lightning on a black sky. As you go around them, you meet the invitation and the test of their gaze. You straighten. Your shoes learn to whisper.
Others arrive, too. A woman in vermillion drifts straight toward the bar as if it were her hunting ground. Another carries in her sadness like it belongs to her evening. You recognize a man in cufflinks and a black bowtie from somewhere notable, and he seems intent on making sure you don’t forget. Two women lean toward one another at the threshold, conspiratorial already. In front of you, the ceremony of a phosphorous flame flares; beside it, the intrusion of a photographer’s flash cuts the dark. Each step forward, the hum of jazz grows breathier, as though the air itself is tuning itself for tonight’s show.
Now, you’re in a story where objects keep score. A glass is a clock, its liquid dropping with minutes you can’t refill. Cigarette smoke drifts like gossip. The bar churns steady as a machine: cocktails lined, poured, broken, remade with repetition and ritual. Around the room, exotic pets and too-grand furniture sit with the same authority as their owners.
This isn’t just a gallery of paintings. It’s an environment where art slips off the wall and into the room. Power, perception, glamour, and rot mingle in the open. Social theatre unfolds at every table and in every corner; objects themselves become gossip. You leave not with answers, but with speculations about what each figure is doing, thinking, hiding, or confessing, and about what the room has taken from them.
Cross the threshold and you find yourself In the Company of Paintings.