Her Hand Listens
A brief essay on artist Min Angel, written for her solo exhibition ‘Promise of a Hot Day’ at Finch Gallery, London, June 29 - July 25, 2026
A fig tree catches the eye on the short walk to Min Angel’s garden studio. Irises play in the breeze, their colours dancing in front of the fig’s grey trunk. Absent during my previous visit in winter they announce themselves loudly this spring, promising a good day ahead, among the reds of dying tulips and the surrounding flora’s collage of warm and cool greens.
Artist’s studios can be messy and chaotic. However, upon entering Min's there is an immediate sense of peace, like stepping into a secret, sacred space. Of course there are myriad tools, chemicals and equipment that shape the paintings into being, and there is a haphazard messiness too, but itʼs all somehow very calming. Colours have seeped in from the garden (how could they not?), and everything feels alive with growth. Tendrils outside are matched by searching lines and marks across multiple surfaces - canvas, panel, paper, cardboard. I wrote the word ‘attack’ in my notebook to remind me of the physicality clearly evident in the work, jumping confidently between wrist, elbow and shoulder - like all good painters do.
In-progress paintings (‘unfinished’ is too negative a word) lean, stand or sit against the walls in a loose assembly echoing a cluster of potted plants I walked past earlier on the patio. The paintings seem eager to converse, primed for another exchange, promising to re-connect with the artist (or indeed chat among themselves). Clearly they have freedom to grow here, find their way. Some marks are rapid, intuitive, unrestricted by logical thought. Others are slow, considered, where Min’s hand follows what the painting is wanting, needing, or perhaps even asking for. When they speak her hand listens.
To write this text I wanted to avoid describing Min’s paintings as they need to be seen and experienced in person. This may sound cliched, but experiencing them is key - I can’t tell you a painting. Too much writing about painters focuses on specific elements of the work, summarising into a few neatly crafted sentences what the writer wants to tell you, which is fine in some respects, but I find this approach too reductive. It misses (and vastly overlooks) the many incidents, feelings, failings, decisions, wrong turns, impulsive responses etc, that go into making a painting, not all of which will survive. This is the ‘work’ aspect of the work, the most important element as it encapsulates the painter as person.
Paintings are the conduit between an artist’s conscious and unconscious connection to the world they inhabit (both physical and spiritual, as well as metaphysical), which brings to mind Ted Hughes 1957 poem The Thought Fox. The poem cemented his need to write poetry, as it re-connected his young adult self to his childhood which was immersed in nature. Hughes wrote it after struggling with an essay deadline when at university. After giving up and going to bed he was immediately visited by a fox in his doorway. “You’re destroying us,” the fox said, reminding him to listen to the natural world that was Hughes’ one true master, not those who artificially attempted to shape his writing.
Min’s paintings are akin to Hughes’ Thought Fox, subconsciously reminding her to listen to the work, and by extension, to herself. Only listening will allow the promise of a hot day.
Lee Johnson (June 2026)