Angela Lane’s painted landscapes move between the real and the imagined, splicing together found images, memories, and observations. Stones on her table become megalithic henges. A prismatic reflection on the wall transforms into a meteorological event. Working in her light-filled Berlin studio, she is reminded that the sky is paradoxical: in flux but fundamentally the same. The quality of the light at dusk in one work could be ripped from a work by Caspar David Friedrich (1774–1840). The strange red hue of a haze-filtered sun could derive from the 16th-century manuscript known as Das Wunderzeichenbuch, or The Book of Miracles.
For over a decade, Lane has focussed her attention on the portentous associations of natural and unnatural phenomena, cramming massive events into tiny spaces. The intimate scale of her paintings forces us to get close to them, so that we almost feel as though we are stepping inside. We are met with impossible rainbows and multiple suns casting singular reflections. These are surely signs of something, but Lane doesn’t purport to know what. She is a quasi-geologist and a pseudo-meteorologist, painting things she does not fully comprehend.