The universe beyond Earth's Low Atmosphere is, rather, in an uproar of energy: old stars collapsing into black holes, their residual energy compacted into explosive baseballs; stars colliding, nebulae expanding; gamma rays, x-rays, and red shifts shooting tentacles non-directionally: rotating, spiraling, and clustering. I see this happening in Hendrick's recent paintings, just as had happened colloquially in the poetic eyes of Joseph Langland: the express took off, the factory plugged into its circuit, insects hummed and buzzed in the suburbs; out of the world of light-color-form parts arrived and swirled and plopped into a limitless space; a firebird leaped up, a comet streaked by and faded, an orgasm of whirling insects exploded in his mind.

Wayne Andersen, 2011
From the essay: James Hendricks in the Space of Time