Gina Folly at Centre d'édition contemporaine

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The box's abundant metaphor, the gift, vessel, the transfer, a waste, a stuf, that nests a possibility. The box is capital's egg. Delivery, birth, of sexually selected commodity. The humble cardboard box makes our Amazonian wishes possible, you can conjure Christmas from a phone, it arrives in box. What is painting but a box? Its material is useless in comparison its higher order of content, to the gift of painting. A body that dies, but whose spirit remains. (See too: Sarah Rapson at Modern Art) An excess of cardboard population, no recycling center can handle. A dystopic grin printed on every one. Which becomes here's sentiments printed like a seance to the ghost, the ether, the big thing undelivered. 

Liz Craft at Centre d'édition contemporaine, Geneva

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Craft's investment in our emoji-ification - the way we relinquish representation/communication to symbols and mannequins. Yellow orbs to replace us, pareidolialy, trash compose face. It's easy and we're good at it. That we identify with the dead eyes of Ms. Pac-man. That speech bubbles can shrink wrap anything. The frame explain its function, even when there is none, it comes flooding, like a painting. We will always see something in them, singing signing. 

Liz Craft at Real Fine Arts, Liz Craft at Jenny’s