Kenton Nelson paints the american people in a caramel-thick landscape, The light is always set over a mild summer afternoon, with golden colors and warm hues prevailing over cold ones. Even the sky is often greenish, with waves of yellow, inhabited by creamy, pompous clouds. His models are always posing like suburban mannequins from a second-hand shop, muscular and fit, incredibly solitary and lost in their thoughts. Sometimes we see a detail of a sprinkler, a dress hanging outdoor, a kid wearing boxing gloves (we can’t see his face but we bet he’s a blond midwestern bloke with freckles and a grin on his face). Sometimes we see legs stretching on top of a chair, a hand grabbing a hat from the shelf, or a man driving south (the sunset light coming from the right side of the car). A smartly dressed man, idling quietly to a metaphysical place, maybe after he killed someone in cold blood. The mindless trees,standing on a straight line, let him pass: a line of vegetable soldiers in a military parade, frozen in disbelief. The atmosphere is intact, almost perfect. Do we hear the tune on the radio or is it just a trick of the painter?