Under the Table
A tabby cat watches from its shadowed hideout beneath the furniture, eyes bright in the gloom.
“Under the Table” trades the human subject for a feline one, and loses none of Kevin Van Pelt’s attentiveness. A tabby cat crouches in the dim world beneath the furniture, paws tucked, green eyes catching the light, regarding the viewer with that particular mix of wariness and calm only cats possess.
Kevin clearly relishes the challenge of the fur — the soft striping of the coat, the silvered whiskers, the plush weight of the body against the shadowed floor. Behind the cat, the legs of chairs and the glint of distant objects build a whole secret architecture of the underneath.
It is a tender, observant portrait of a household companion in its favorite hiding place — proof that a great portraitist finds character wherever it lives.