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Scanlan returns from his racial debacle with objects as opaque and conceptually quaint as ever, pleasant acceptable art objects. And this pleasant return to socially conforming nicety of the artworld objects at time when race is once again headline contested, people literally dying in streets, that Scanlan has the privilege to leave "his" black body is something. (No need to beat a dead horse, Fusco excised it nicely, but at root wasn't the Woolford project simply boring, weren't whites already writing for black actors - when there were black actors - almost exclusively, wasn't this merely the baseline and norm of a culture?) Scanlan is a perceptive critic, penning brilliant if coy essays on FGT, Tino Sehgal, Agnes Martin, among other subjects, in a way that opened rather consolidated their practices, so I'm not sure what is retarding insight into his own.
