Extremely crude and campy, something like Joan Snyder doing drag queen figuration, and it's fantastic. The "impasto," if you can even call it that, looks more like sculpey than paint, and the general roughness of technique is so resolutely outlandish that it takes the borderline amateur surface and imbues it with a trance-like potency, something akin to Jack Smith's dialectical synthesis of squalor and mystical ecstasy. Many of the paintings are on a blank white background or even unprimed board, but the heaviness of the figuration plays off the lack of finish to create a harmonious imbalance that preserves the suggestion of an ideal by not trying too hard to convey it. This is kind of a pretentious reference in context, but it's something like those unfinished Cézannes that feel more perfect than the ones he finished. Decidedly minor painting, but in the best sense of a "minor literature." Almost unjustifiably good, even his abstract/surrealistic digressions in the back room are no worse than his usual glamorous ladies.