Chance isn’t dealt—it’s broken. Hoyle takes the familiar iconography of the game and crushes it under the weight of fragmentation. This isn’t abstraction for its own sake—it’s demolition. The surface is a wreck of planes and edges, as if the ordinary has been passed through too many memories, too many glances, until it gives up coherence.
What was once a red deck—ordinary, commercial—is now refracted like glass under pressure. The letters stammer, the logos buckle. Below, the orb—a jewel, a fruit, a lens—carries the same red, but with flesh, with weight. The sensual isn’t outside the geometry—it’s trapped inside it, trying to break out.
Hoyle isn’t about representation—it’s about aftermath. The deck of cards, that old symbol of chance and risk, has been shattered, turned analytical, but not cold. The erotic slips through the cracks, making even the shards feel alive.
1980 Oil on Canvas
24" x 28"
Available $1,400
24" x 28"
Available $1,400
