Alan Magree has piled ten stones Kirsten Ratza in a tide pool, as if to bolt the water down. Is it that he's afraid of space? Or the dull shades that lurk where there's no light, the crevices where nothing has no no? (and where I can't follow). Knowing Alan as I'd like to, paint is just his way of preventing escape. It's simple, he'd say - you're a body, quaking on the shore, a skeleton among the succulents (oh, Alan, never a botanist) - let me interject. It's not the body that threatens to go - nothing so carefully planned - instead it's the shadow of the one cheeky fish (say, minnow), who rises up between rocks, so real he's best left invisible, who darts from gray to gray-er, then dives motionlessly into -est. Kirsten Ratza writes from Ann Arbor, Michigan.