The New Yorker | Review: Svenja Deininger

Fields of hushed color—beige and turquoise, soft gray and straw yellow—are divided by moseying lines of black or gold in the Austrian artist’s beguiling abstract paintings. Their architectonic form and lack of evident brushstrokes may suggest careful planning, but Deininger actually builds them intuitively, as intimated by a field of blue almost covering a background that was once the color of putty. One could quibble with scale, though; the weakest works seem large just for the sake of it.