For short flights at least, the window seat is the best on an aeroplane. On a clear day, no other view is like it. The sensory chaos that we wade through on the ground is resolved into a single, pristine surface. This is the seductive illusion of the overview, the god-like perspective which reduces a six-lane highway into a decorative element in a suddenly comprehensible design. From this distance, the built environment and the underlying landscape cohere as geometric abstraction.
It is tempting to read Greg Burton’s latest body of works in terms of this view. The splintering geometry and the crystalline jumble of architectonic forms, have a similar confusion between macro and micro. They seem topographical, like expansive landscapes rendered in miniature, with a complexity that invites detailed exploration. Burton’s art is engaged in a long-term love affair with the machine. All crisp edges, sleek surfaces and precision manufacture, these works are aeronautical in attitude as well as allusion.
The abstraction of the landscape when it is seen from the air, the resolution of its complexity into an interlocking array of glittering forms, is a reconfiguration of the familiar that is not dissimilar to Burton’s process. In both, the familiar surfaces of the world are fractured and folded into a new state.