I never feel hotter or more detached (indeed, more American) than in a car, windows down in the August heat. It’s an exercise in movement, longing on an unremarkable plane of asphalt. Each lane is a pulse, where everyone seeks a false salvation. Jane Dickson’s new paintings on astroturf capture these moments, underscoring the futility of escape from monotony, from yet another flaxen sunset. Her works of desolate roads, brake lights, and palm trees at night illustrate a search for significance in the ordinary. It conjures the sweetness of smoke from California wildfires. I brace myself to be engulfed, and I am, quietly, by the work’s nothingness.