It is the pervasive acceptance of and clamor for the materialistic manifestations of Kinkade’s rather limited artistic vision the sanctification, if you will, of his penchant for depopulated and nonsensical rural scenery that serves to only increase the hair-lifting horror that lurks beneath his sun-dappled streams and glowing rustic manses.
Yes, horror. Horror of the worst kind, the horror wrought from juxtaposing innocuous items or idyllic surroundings with sudden ghastly consequences. The kind of thought-erasing horror that comes from watching a huge cylindrical brush used in an automatic car wash smash through your windshield. The kind of throat-parching, temple-pounding, sweaty-knees horror that comes from watching the stitched simpleton’s smile on a Raggedy Ann doll suddenly gape open into a bloody drooling leer.
Surprisingly, this was not written by Simcha Fisher.