On Todd Mrozinski

A writer’s voice is very personalized to each individual, not dissimilar to our speaking voice, but maybe even more unique. While certain people may share a cadence and tone, one’s writings are a manifestation of intention and self. For some, their writing voice is near identical to their internal one, simply an externalization of the way they think, and process the world. For others, such as myself, it may deeply resemble their speaking voice, with the act of writing working as a sieve, enforcing conciseness and clarity.
 
The first thing I knew about Todd Mrozinski as a writer, upon reading his article, The Power of Great Paintings, was that he is a storyteller. Narrative is the air this piece breaths, it is story masquerading as review, evident by the way we walk with him through the show. Take the article’s introduction as proof; “Having visited the Phillips Collection in Washington, D.C. a number of times, I was thrilled to hear a portion of this museum’s art was traveling to Milwaukee. My heart raced as I showed the attendant my ticket and entered the first gallery of 'A Modern Vision: European Masterworks from The Phillips Collection' at the Milwaukee Art Museum.” He describes hearing about works coming to the city, his excitement at the prospects of witnessing them in person once more, and he does so with a tone that presents him as nothing more than an excited guest, not someone who intended to write a review of the showing, likely(hopefully) on commission. All of this to say, not only does Mrozinski write in narrative, but he does so intentionally, maybe even spinning a white lie or two, in order to make it go down smoother.
 
Todd is also a depictive writer, playing with metaphor and visual language, using his words to paint a mental image, rather than simply describe what he sees.
 
“The haziness of the vase contour behind the sharpness of the peach creates space like a distant mountain range on a foggy day.”
 
“Paul Cezanne’s “Self Portrait” from 1878-80 is not so much painted as massaged. It is a self-anointed portrait which seems to have been built with his thumbs. The clay-like paint is pushed, smeared and built like the mountain, Mount Sainte-Victoire…”
 
“Paint is slathered, smeared, dripped, glazed and scraped. The color turns to light as we enter Bonnard’s world and join his wife and cat in their glimmering domestic space.”
 
But he not only gives such level of depth for the works, he does so for the space they occupy as well.
 
“In the next room, I’m drawn to a Berthe Morisot painting, …”
 
“The Pierre Bonnard room pulsates with the light of France in a master class of painting.”
 
“Near the end of the exhibition, I spot a painting I have known and loved for years, …”
 
It is fitting, to describe these paintings with such vivid imagery, but it speaks to the writer’s style and voice, to also do so for the museum setting as well.
 
Lastly, I view Todd Mrozinski as, if nothing else, a person who appreciates melodrama, for how else can one describe a review of an exhibition, written as narrative non-fiction, that ends with a Nietzsche quote, of all things?