Amy Myers grew up in a house of science. Physics was the currency of exchange. This was a world of muons, gluons, particles top and bottom, up and down, charming and strange—a universe of infinite space and permeable surfaces. The theories that inflamed her imagination boggle our senses. She has managed to commingle them and, to some extent, harness them in her mandalas of female physiognomy. If you thought them diagrams, you have only seen them from a distance. These feminine fantasies are as delicate as lacework, as eloquent as a bridal gown, as spectacular as fireworks, and as uninhabitable as a distant planet. When you come within range of their humming, the Dance of Veils takes effect. Fields of energy drawn from Myers’s mind and released by her hand push deep into the flatness of the paper. Her constellations atomize into a spinning, vibrating abstraction that draws you irresistibly toward an ever-widening interiority—a near-infinite, yet intimate, space of dizzying electromagnetic seduction. These shapes are tightly held within the gravitational force of her psychological/spiritual cosmos. Orbiting, endlessly orbiting. Sparkling, luminous, quirky, sexy, and playful, they bounce and zip along trajectories of mesmerizing complexity. So transfixing are they that before you know it they have left the paper-flat surface and encircled you, wrapped you in an embrace that is impossible to shake off. Though why would you want to?
Calling them drawings doesn’t do them justice, doesn’t represent their force or effulgence. They are elemental: pulp and lead. They are arrays of monumental intricacy. They are totems to Cosmic Sexuality. No matter how far into them your curiosity leads you, Myers has already been there to draw it. She is the creator of this universe. You cannot exhaust her imaginative detail. I guarantee that you will tire long before she does.
—Eric Fischl is a New York-based painter.