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Dynamo for so much of the 1960s art world, Oldenburg was also, at times appallingly, no cartoon. (Séance Hannah Wilke.) Did an artist with such psycho-aesthetic investment in the invagination of commercial space ever stop to consider what might happen if, courtesy of a wildly inverting repetition, the phantasmatic derangements of capitalism or branding embroiled in his concession shoppe and its merging of philosophical and commercial notions re-rendezvoused to, vagina dentata-like, bite him in the ass?
- Bruce Hainley, Under the Sign of [sic]Sturtevant has extracted a few breathless acts of writing brilliance from those attempting siphoning of the mind's gymnastics ascertaining what, exactly, one sees seeing a Sturtevant. The murky dilute comedy of painting above as example. What one would wish for now is an almost exacting unpackaging of a Sturtevant object, a sort of T.J. Clark vivisection of the animal, dead on the table but understood, a Monsieur Sturtevant's Hat, would be something.
See too : Sturtevant at MoMA
