Tatjana Valsang at Konrad Fischer

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because there is coldness at the heart of big beautiful dumb paintings, a thing that exists without us, the way rocks are fascinating and inhuman. Ostensibly art would be the human ability to create their own rocks, plinths, and means for, but it's still not human's, still not ours, it's still always some nebulous swirling thing that hints at being ours, aromas ours, but its not, its cold, inhuman, spiteful.

Charlotte Posenenske at Konrad Fischer

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PR states "she erased all gestural traces avoiding and dimishing [sic] any kind of subjectivity." which while not entirely true the attempt does feel apropos to our current scratching at the glass, less to feel something than touch its borders as well as mark it. Scratched glass tends to reveal itself. This is the edge, the limit. Posenenske found it. And then Posenenske, tellingly, left the artworld. Yet we keep dragging her back, out. Why does art love and mythologize the people that leave it? As Herbert recounts one of her last acts was handing out broadsheets at Documenta stating "You culture vultures, so here you are all gathered together to chat and lie and talk crap so as to gain the upper hand." Us all loving our artists while not listening to them, an exhibition like a condescending smile.

Alice Channer at Konrad Fischer

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Brandishing the machines, tools used in production, the techno-look of the industrial process, underscore technique thus value. Not just shiny, but bearing its technological effort. Nature does not, a crab's exoskeleton extrudes out of soft delicious goo like magic. Fingernails spew from flesh. God hides tricks, ours brute industrial process. It forces the body to be like Frankenstein's monster a gross conglomerate of flesh, forced to dance.

Cristina Iglesias at Konrad Fischer

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A sinkhole could open beneath you, at any moment open you could be sucked under earth, the universe could tear apart, a vessel burst in your cortex, the universe open and consume you. The void is too abstract, it is made visceral when it becomes the abyss, a cleft turning like lips into mouth,
when there is a physical depth to the unknown disappearing into shades. The submerged has always been a symbol for the unconscious and thus tinged death. A sinkhole provides its real possibility, which invokes a physiologic response. We surely have been evolutionarily hardwired to fear deepwater, dark spaces. The hole provides its real possibility, of another world underneath, which invokes a physiologic response. And artist's use of this.