In the interest of hastening and possibly short-circuiting the delay between total obscurity and posthumous renown (see Forrest Bess, Henry Darger and that Dutch guy who cut off his ear), let us praise Mike Hollis, one of the most original and committed painters Houston has produced, still living here and still working. His paintings —always changing, always ahead of the pack — are consistently engaging and strangely likable lozenges of hard, funky abstraction with a pop-color palette and a wordless wit. Over the course of his career he's shown at Texas Gallery and the Station Museum, not to mention in New York and elsewhere. Let the record state that he was also a one-time member of the Red Krayola's Familar Ugly mega-band, a psychedelic hooligan and an early punk, an artist's artist dedicated to the whole enchilada, an emblem of the anarchy and chaos for which Houston has prided itself all these years.