Laure Prouvost at Carlier Gebauer

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You're always entering a tunnel with Prouvost. Always ending with an argument on the exact definition of mis-en-scene. If German expressionist cinema had a unifying gestalt that we could all understand if not quite pin as anything but expressionist and German then Prouvost's is a sort of dental office maximalism. You always leave Prouvosts feeling lightly diddled, a titillation feeling swindled. Like if an Apple commercial grew tentacles entered the real and manipulated you. Prouvost treats everything and me as an infant, so radically in awe of all equally, dust, shit, flowers babies, nipples, in resin or celluloid cast together. Like advertisements working on the desire for you to return to the infantile placental state, into some affective hypnosis, impressionable like goo.

Paul Pfeiffer at Carlier Gebauer

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players in ecstasy and boxers stricken with invisible tremors, the comedy was was usurped by the elegant formality of all it, its technical feat to some strange other world that was decided loneliness and pathos that was undercurrent bedrock of its spectacle. And this sort of "encarnating" Bieber as the object of devotion he spectacularly exists as, feels obvious. The traditional techniques Pfeiffer used artisans for this incarnation are far more interesting than its conceptual gesture. Not quite funny enough to escape itself, nor dead enough to be camp, as is often the case Pfeiffer's works rimshot high-serious and silly. Also, in the rear, the workers have sculpted the heads of their children, which... not even going to get into that one's Freudian-capitalist undertones, shackling the workers to what they work for, cruel.