Louisa Gagliardi at Rodolphe Janssen

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It feels more and more that everything is synthetic, made from the same substance, stuf. It feels like our world is comprised of at least someone's putty. We plan a world through virtualizations. Erect bathrooms on plans. Our bodies could be figured for their worth in tile. Tile is cost per square foot, you per hour. Everything exchangeable and thus equivalent, paying you in the going rate of Silly Putty you are made of. Everything a labor, you an object. We stretch you like cartoons at whims to an invisible hand market exchange. The developer sculpts his cities taffy, painters are left their devices.

Louisa Gagliardi at Open Forum

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Painting has body but ink has that sheen perfect in fashion, surfaces whose shapelies have been excavated until mere skeletons hanging clothes and skin to glow. That like Gagliardi's paintings the body cut for their tubular photoshop skin, cartoon mirroring our model's own el Grecoing bodies into lanky warbling sticks, printed in advert sweat, inks, magazine glass. That wet look, pavement in the rain under sodium streetlamps, inky, in the surfaces where even the lighting appears moisturized. Painting adopts different vernaculars, TOM FORD FOR MEN, appearing new.  A whole exhibition today called PVC fetishism - that the youthful today, raised in glass-inflected magazines, slick cartoons, feed though plastic, eventually adopt affinities for that torrent of slickness, we start to print our dreams on vinyl.


see too: Tony Conrad's Glass, Olga Balema at High Art, Olga Balema at High Art (2), Nicola Tyson at Friedrich Petzel, “Puddle, pothole, portal” at Sculpture Center,