Diango Hernández at Nicolas Krupp

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This exhibition is like the first time you psychedelic drugs but if you could retain faculties enough to draw, notate what was so cool in the waves. Then of course you awake to sobriety, all that is left to wonder what precisely was so interesting at the time, why your camera roll contains 377 photos of your hand. What were you seeing dear psychonaut? A mystery, how art works. 

Diango Hernández at VAN HORN

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"The number 5 on my list of least used words in contemporary art is ‘love’. Believe it or not these days love is not really in vogue, hip or cool. I have looked repeatedly in museums, galleries and all sorts of exhibitions and rarely I saw or heard it used. How could that have happened? Who took it away from art? Have we all forgotten the primary reason why we make and exhibit art?"

If you believe art to be some abstracted form of sexual plumage it would make sense that all art is a form of "love," shimmering objects like peacock's tail. It is perhaps why Chuck Close could - oopsie - assault by mistaking an interest in his object as an interest in him, the conflation of art with its sexual extension. We don't speak of art as love - Gonzalez-Torres had to all but force the issue - because we fear this sublimated form of desire bubbling back up its primordial grease. Art is an extension of us, our selves, our home, sometimes as an innuendo at the end of a rod.