Art, by logic, is derivative. It rests on echoes of borrowed narratives, on traces of genre and style that evoke familiarity for both viewer and artist. In this sense, art pays reverence by way of muse and simulation. It seems counter-intuitive then, that Kerry Armstrong’s work should rely so little on these intentional props. Her prodigious output is instead marked by a feeling, rather than any measured observation or homage to classical form. While her oeuvre could be described as abstract expressionism, the term limits the dialogue a viewer will have with her art. This type of vernacular diminishes the human interaction that will occur between the audience and the deeply personal tales embedded in the thick masses of oil paint that congregate across her life-size storyboards.