“By stripping her means to the graphical sine qua non of black ink on white paper, she courts meaninglessness every time she raises her brush, yet the uncanny exactitude of her drips and strokes conjures a spectrum of emotion from crippling grief to unbridled joy.
Although Bloch is of a generation that came of age in war-torn France, to yoke her work to existentialism feels as glib as linking it to second-generation Abstract Expressionism or to Minimalism, which it straddles chronologically and stylistically. It is so grounded in a specific set of materials that it defies the notion of a literary provenance, and it is so concerned with the act of art-making that if feels equally indifferent to a prevailing idiom or a formal critique. Its tension arises from an ink membrane drying on a fibrous surface, or a horsehair pulled taut. Its thingness is both its sum and its reduction; anything beyond that is wreathed in clouds of conjecture.”