Showing posts with label Brooklyn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brooklyn. Show all posts

Friday, November 19, 2021

Takako Yamaguchi at Ramiken Crucible

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Setting aside the Domenico Gnoli question for the present, there is something continuously robust in the breast of your facade. Blank and interpretable. Art fount. We turn identity into inkblot. 

Sunday, May 30, 2021

Organic Music Societies: Don and Moki Cherry at Blank Forms

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This is a crazy repository. Documentation that goes all the way down. In CAD's spectrum choice of editorial or vault, this is firmly in the vault territory - the whole catalog - more than your morning coffee can handle. This is not an exhibition but an archive. Which is good for the world, bad for dear CAWD reader.  This after all CAWD's endless whinging over exhibitions with 6 promotional stills. Now CAWD given the whole pack to smoke. Eat it and like it dweeb. Maybe this is way to get CAWD to shut up - sing its music of universal silence. Maybe this is pesticide to memetic insta-friendly aesthetics. But maybe excess might only eventually breed new editors, new mastheads to sort the mass, fear. 

Monday, October 28, 2019

Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster at Century Pictures


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Reading a book in a commercial art gallery was a torture device invented for the late Medieval Era. A sort of mental flog, a public humiliation. The point being, you're not supposed to read the books. It is a show library. Like, you can call Strand bookstore and order a library by the foot, you can specify "classics," "law library," or spine color. You can reverse engineer this. What do the collected titles reveal about the impetus catalyzing it. You peruse a person's library to triangulate a subject, denote their reader, here an artist, an ostensible brandishing of an intellectual pedigree. A lot of people fake it; it's a form itself.

Saturday, June 15, 2019

Raque Ford at 321 Gallery


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need to manifest text as an aesthetic physicality. At its worst generally involves fabrication budgets for neon, like how little distance we've come since Nauman.
3. We don't trust text alone in space - god forbid we come across as pedagogical, or worse boooring, or, worst, wrong - so we aestheticize it, ironize it, make it sparkle, cut it to a koan, so the lash of language is tempered with comfort, which are aesthetics. There seems no art text not couched in some.
(4. While wall text is, oddly, left to its own institutional devices.)

Despite, when Ford's are their most direct, cut and left dry, they retain all the enjoyment of flipping through artist notebooks. The aestheticization is more the provisionality, but it's a natural form.