The American landscape painted by Leah Giberson reminds us of David Hockney and Edward Hopper: the former for the colors and the bright, graphic patterns, the latter for the still, almost lifeless atmosphere of a human, yet inhabited space. Giberson is a poet of a broken mythology, the dream of a land so vast to be frightening in its endless beauty. Too big to be conquered by a full day horse-ride and way too big to be swallowed by a single glimpse of imagination – teardrops and sweat drawing wet lines on your cheek – your face reduced to a map of flesh and sorrow. The Airstream is like a tin box, burning under the blazing, unforgiving sun, reflecting a distorted image of our wishes. Everything seems under control, with the trimmed grass, the folding chairs, the cheap, nice carpet unrolled in front of the doorstep. Some paintings focus on a single plastic chair, an empty house, a car, a swimming pool. Everywhere, the unbearable presence of silence. There’s no consolation in the light blue sky, in the zany afternoons, in the tidy preparation and polishing and refurbishing of human daily deeds. The emptiness is annihilating and you almost feel suffocated by so much perfection in so little smallness. In all of Giberson’s painting the broken dream is alive, along with the paraphernalia of all broken dreams: that sense of measured dignity that makes them even harder to bear. We don’t know whether this was the original message behind her patched beautiful canvases, but we think Leah’s work is nothing less than extraordinary. And we are happy to publish it on our pages.