Out of chiaroscuro unconsciousness, dripping into your
dreams, the changing self—like looking into a funhouse mirror, your being all
fragmented, distorted, gruing nightmarish. Michele Mikesell’s works seem
reflections of these selves, forms in space, backgrounds undefined, heads
clasped in classical trappings, countenances hanging haunted like heads stuffed
into stocks; they transmit a nervy midnight sense of discomfort and unsettled
identity, feelings one can easily empathize with in the lanky hours of an
overly long, dyspeptic night.