An arresting stillness settles on the many flowers of
Michael Hoffee. As a silent volcanic eruption, they explode from their
vase, always a steady, physical vase. Still, they look content in their
duty to carry us back to an easy grounded confidence in the color and
beauty Nature provides for it's weaker friends.
Michael Hoffee continued through the wasteland of my idiocy, patiently creating works, gaining power and energy without guilt. His flowers and interiors stew little over the past. Hoffee's cityscapes of towering figures watching us (more than their architecture and transportation clogged towns) keep their strange contentment a secret still. Despite my faltering allegiance and false pride, I'm proud of Hoffee more than I can think to say.