Robert Grosvenor at Fridericianum

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A mass-production car must be designed for the broadest appeal, but the magic of art is in engineering a desire to an end where it meets no consumer need. This is the only magic of art. (Though its failure at this is routine.) This is the magic of Grosvenor, for whom objects seem bent to some ultraspecifc whim. You can work backwards from the object toward its desire, its impetus. This is how you see a subject. You make out reason in Grosvenor's over and under engineered oddities, aerodynamic goofiness, his minor surprises. They come out of left field. For all their design, they magically end up artless. It's nearly outsider art. Full of polish for the id. Full of concepts that are never capitalized.  They feel in-process, provisional. It makes them feel like drawings, actual ideas. 

See too: Richard Rezac at The Renaissance Society, Richard Rezac at Isabella Bortolozzi, Naoki Sutter-Shudo at Bodega

Lee Kit at Fridericianum

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But that's not a sunset, no, so much more, sentiment.

See too: Nostalgia suspends, in formaldehyde's rose tinted veil, our memories. Memories like fetal pigs. New research shows that nostalgia is the brain's way of combating negative feelings and nihilism, the brain self-administering drugs...

Paul Sharits at Fridericianum

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Interesting seeing Sharits more outré works that have been streamlined in mythos. I.e., the electric expressionism of hands and graceless feet, the appendixes smoothed from bodies of work, edited to geometric fit of iconographic film work. Sure, they’re a gauche attempts to illustrate the physicality of the filmic assaults irrupting an iridescence, onslaught visuality drawing only symbolizes, but their awkward ill-fit in art’s ever cleaner storage racks make their presence sitting outside it all the more important to against much of the tasteful sober conceptual “airtight” gloss of much of today, trying and failing.
Not even contained on Greene Naftali's representation of the artist.