Adrift

In every medium, there’s at least one motif that is repeated compulsively.

With writers — in the West at least — it’s a story based on Greek mythology, often produced in the adolescence of their careers, as if there’s some unspoken rule that says you don’t get your big kid pants until you hack at something with the river Styx in it, or tell the million-millionth version of Orpheus & Eurydice.

For painters, there’s “the Ophelia.” Give a dude some paint and sooner or later he’ll drown a chick — figuratively speaking. (It’s less a thing with female artists. Go figure.)

I like Jeremy Lipking’s “Adrift” because it fucks with that. It’s conscious of “the Ophelia” tradition, but instead of depicting a woman who’s killed herself over a man, Lipking’s young subject seems to float in reverie, in celebration life — to me, anyway.

Maybe you see something different