Hélène Fauquet at Kunsthaus Glarus

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Détuorns a frame we're used to. Reframes a frame we expect, "know" how to read. The trick is effective. These are our portals of the familial. This photo? Great cousin Greg when he was still a protoplasm, a primordial ooze. Your uncle Geoff, he's always been a cuttlefish, a real blue tailed skink. Fauqent penchant for the glass we know too well, and the glass we look through. 

See too: Hélène Fauquet at Edouard Montassut 

Caroline Bachmann at Kunsthaus Glarus

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The waypoint between today's digital surrealism and the pre-renaissance's religious devotion, with paintings that treat space with the depth of an iPad and organized with halos for its icons. I'm convinced the way spirituality has been rendered over the centuries has a direct influence on our computer interfaces. Organization of symbols to access higher planes.


See too: Emily Mae Smith at Rodolphe Janssen, Alexandra Noel at Freedman Fitzpatrick, Atlantis, Orion Martin at Bodega, Ray Yoshida at David Nolan, Sascha Braunig at Kunsthall Stavanger, Alice Tippit at Night Club, Lui Shtini at Kate Werble, Sascha Braunig at Rodolphe Janssen, Mathew Cerletty at Office Baroque, Anne Neukamp at Greta Meert

Birgit Megerle at Kunsthaus Glarus

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Banality in painting makes tense a medium we think of as so inherently singular. Placing its original object in the neither-nor world of common. These are like staring at milk, an object of effort to make so plain, pasteurized, from a fount so specific and pink. Even the more particular subjects achieve some iridescent vague. Paintings you could find anywhere but fit nowhere, Megerle is diligent in boiling the paintings to something congealed, gelatinous, soft-firm, melting. Living with one of these would be like hiring someone to mock your individuality everyday.

Shana Moulton at Kunsthaus Glarus

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Moulton's humor in our contradictions, our desperation in searching for spiritual value in commodic life, or authenticity, or comfort, or "magic" technologies all being juxtaposed with the day's small tragedy of turning over a can of beans to read its ingredients (to attempt to glean some control over our world, some mastery where we have none, there no mastery) is amphetaminically reminiscent of Cindy Sherman's endless mockery of her subject's desire to appear, to express itself in any sort of meaningful way, bullying our desire for comfort in recognition itself, to individualize with video effect, a root desire for anything other than this life, somberly kicking us when we're down with a medical donut strapped to our ass, you so desperately want these to be funny but no one has ever made anything sadder than these post-semio-industrial kafkaesque videos, like watching Gregor Samsa transmute to Mr. Bean and die, alone, gasping for air with the precision of a comic, Moulton.


See too: Jordan Wolfson at David Zwirner