Eric Wesley at Midway Contemporary Art

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Wesley's ability to mock what contains him, a laughable institutional crit whose assault is the brilliant dumbening of art dialect. The Burrito is hot right now. You've got Murillo's 300k one, Flame's mockery of, Bader's continual replenishing it as category, and Wesley's endless one. The difference here is Wesley's insistence of the burrito not its signifier which art has long found a way to be protected from, but to actually work with the burrito, which morphs to Taco Bell here, to force that most base of architecture to reflect on the walls of Midway. The joke isn't Taco Bell placed in art, but actually maybe caring about it.

Eric Wesley at Bortolami

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The schedule like the modernist grid thematizes the paint. Paint as laughably hopeful-stand-in for thought, the aura of having thought, without containing it. Eroticising the noodling, doodles, messes, detritus, as the work itself, symbols of work, desperately, “drolly,” coming with nothing but itself in hand, the seed spilled.
Rorschachs as production schedules, enabling projection. A luring decipherability: telling us nothing, appearing as if they could. The paint/doodling is desire, hypothetical, schematics projecting into time, suspending the painting into delay, a pre. The touch, marks of a lifetime, on canvas, blown up. Noodling in time, marking it, as only spilling on a schedule could.