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Asparagus is the first vegetable I skip at the grocery, which is harder in Germany because, come springtime, it's Spargelzeit, baby! I had not known asparagus to be this important until I was invited to an asparagus-themed brunch, but ended up visiting an asparagus-themed exhibition instead.

The exhibition, 'Bunch of Asparagus' by artist Punch Viratmalee, was held at Jean Claude Maier's gallery, or home, depending on how close you are with the gallerist.

We gathered around Jean-Claude, who then invited Punch to talk about the show. I personally find this gesture generous, as in other exhibitions, it is quite rare for artists to address the crowd. Often, the mic is set up for directors while the artist looks down, smiling sheepishly. Or the artist butterflies around for quick hellos, little catch-ups, champagne in hand. Or you find them smoking in the corner, eager to go home.

Punch reads an anecdote from the back of a postcard. Warmly. We laugh.

'Bunch of Asparagus' reflects on humor and history. In 1880, Édouard Manet was commissioned by Charles Ephrussi, an art collector and patron, to paint A Bundle of Asparagus for 800 francs. When Ephrussi sent 1,000 francs instead, Manet responded by creating a smaller piece, A Sprig of Asparagus, and sent it along with the note: “There was one missing from your bunch.” 18th-century humor.

I've seen these paintings before. Or at least drafts of it. Literally. I was hired to document some work in her studio. Then, the paintings were presented as studies, installed as a snapshot of an artist at work. 

Now, the paintings appeared as finished works on a white wall, arranged with curatorial intent. Asparagus close up, set against dark backgrounds—navy blues and umber-glazed. Light highlights crevices and forms, stalks taking the lead role, vivid against shadows.

I spent a while looking at a single painting, Untitled (Asparagus7). It had masking tape. In my memory, it was about to peel off. It wasn't. I speculate on its purpose, and upon confirmation, the tapes were, in fact, an after-gesture; not a forgotten prep for margins or borders, but for "reframing composition.”

Was this a subverted expression of afterthought?

It has been said that the most desirable part of an asparagus is the tip. Yet in Untitled (Asparagus7), the tip is cut short, laid on concrete. Sulking severed asparagus surrendering, wanting to trash itself in the bin. And yet, even in almost-rot, Punch allows the asparagus to shine, painting highlights in almost neon, almost becoming the light source itself. 

Asparagus, you're a shining star. You will always be famous.

On one hand, these works follow classic painting tropes, respecting the history of light, shadow, composition, color, and mixing. Yet, in this particular piece, through a sticky adhesive, Punch swiftly abandons the classical traditions strive to achieve. One quick punch from Punch.

A simple act of leaving masking tape on the canvas brings and breaks a tremendous amount of history. When utilized this way by an artist, it is no longer just a tool to straighten a border, but a mechanism to disrupt what has already been set. Masking tape, in its absolute humility, allows for things to change. It can stick, piece together, or cover up. And yet, as time passes and temperatures shift, it also carries the quiet potential to eventually damage the painting itself.

Categorizing this work as post-painting (or post-impressionist) might be apt, but I will not die on such a hill, as I admit to my limited understanding of this post-medium thing. But I know, this type of work challenges the core notion of classical painting. 

I can almost hear a painter protest, “That’s not a painting!” and I can almost hear myself shout back, “Then what is it?”