French philosopher Gaston Bachelard (1884-1962) wrote, "The house is one of the greatest powers of integration for the thoughts, memories and dreams of mankind. Through dreams, the various dwelling-places in our lives copenetrate and retain the treasures of former days."

In the same way that Bachelard's words distill the essence of an ordinary house into something of great significance, the images in MaureenGallace's paintings have the ability to penetrate the eye and wash over the memory. We gaze at her clear, brilliant sunlit paintings of houses, and dreams unfold.

The reduced palette, the blank house exteriors, the summer light and minimal landscapes of her pieces inspire feelings of recognition and allow the viewer to "enter" the work.

"People start to tell me where they grew up, about their childhood holidays -- no matter where they are from, people recognize something in them," says Gallace, whose own childhood holidays in Cape Cod are the inspiration for all her work.

The paintings produce a superficial impression of quiet and calm, but their cumulative effect is one of unseen ferment. Devoid of all action, completely still and windless, there is a palpable tension holding the works in the exhibition together. The simplicity of the painting style, too, is deceptive. Each piece is reworked many times to create a feeling of seemingly untutored, easy application of paint and unemotional serenity.

"See that window?" Gallace points to a tiny gray square placed high on an otherwise featureless wall, "I did that at least 16 times."

Houses, sky, pathways to the sea, grass, cream and white summer light: The paintings all contain these elements. They are almost the same, but the subtle differences, slight changes in the composition or the basic shape of the house, begin to suggest abstraction. The process -- the act of painting itself -- is hard to ignore.

In such an obsession with the same material the form is rendered inconsequential, somehow transcended by all the repetition and tiny differences. Gallace's love of this particular Connecticut scene is reductive and as obscure as repeating a familiar word ad infinitum. The meaning begins to warp and multiply. The house is no longer a house, it is everything and nothing and the paint itself starts to take over.

The brush strokes do not pretend to be hidden in the form: Gallace never lets us forget that it is the paint that makes the picture. While there is no "shouting" with bold expressionistic slashes, the muted announcement of tiny gestures has the same effect. The occasional short, horizontal jab of paint is purposely left unblended in an otherwise painterly sky or ground. Naked and brash, the lonely paint stroke is independent and quietly defiant in the surrounding landscape -- as much an entity as the house or pathway are the legitimate constituents of the little local Cape Cod scene.

Often compared to Morandi, whose metier was painting bottles, Gallace acknowledges the comparison.

"Yes, there is a connection: using a lot of the same imagery, exploring the actual painting of it. Every little part gets its own little treatment. I need them to function as paintings, as pure form. But nevertheless all the meaning is there too. It is clear that there are definite connotations with the idea of house."

The old saying "We bring our lairs with us" is well illustrated here -- you don't need to have had a holiday home in Connecticut to connect with your latent memories at Gallace's exhibition. It's lovely: the paint, the houses, the sun -- almost as good as packing your bags and traveling back to that beach house in time.