Carmen Argote at Commonwealth and Council

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Large Pepperoni Extra Cheese 2020, Pizza oil transfer on paper.
Oils weep, seep in our guts. Haunt our upholstery. Our intestinal distress. The contaminants of the human. The Turin shroud of gluttony. I think it's important that we hang our stains on the walls. (Art is a series of stains, tho a particularly peacocked version.) That we know ourselves. And we should know them all.

“Tierra. Sangre. Oro.” at Ballroom Marfa

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We don't like to see labor, we attempt to believe our objects as plucked from some global production line where no one fears the coming automation because we believe everything to already be, like the seams of our clothes not already warmed by sweating hands in hot rooms, or the brushed aluminum and Gorilla glass whose machining attempts to appear seamless, the seams that stand for assembly, that collect grout, human detritus, that body we don't wish to see. When the seamless, brushless, painting disintegrated into the impressionist strokes like building blocks the bourgeois were appalled, and the desire of minimalism to once again repress the labor of the factories they got to build their work seem an attempt to return the order of the seamless virtual object, willing to align themselves against labor. Each seam, each brick representing the hands that minimalism was willing to sacrifice, lop off, repress.


See too: Judith Hopf at Museion, Judith Hopf at kaufmann repetto, Melvin Edwards at Daniel Buchholz