Showing posts with label Lucy Skaer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lucy Skaer. Show all posts

Friday, May 18, 2018

Lucy Skaer at Peter Freeman


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The diamond must be faceted, a value predicated on an ability to shine. You see it sparkle, present its interiority.

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Lucy Skaer at KW


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They're just such nice things. Commodity's reproducibility, the quantity, the mass suggests its virtuality, the perfect other they all infer as individuals plucked from it, the ether of abstraction, the idea of the product. Obviously this is a lie, the commodity isn't its conception but rather the defecation of it, the bodily machined sweat object. Commodities infer virtuality. But are far more handmade than we generally think, factory sweat is wiped from every clean aluminum body. Things melt and are cast aside.  The particular begins to vanish from above, so we bejewel some, award them medals, give them titles, separate them from populations, learned like children from gameboards, how we deal with the world today.


See too: Katharina Fritsch at Walker Art CenterMathis Altmann at Freedman Fitzpatrick

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Lucy Skaer at MRAC


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What jewelry does to its wearer, Skaer does to sculpture, attachments which offset the object, accessorize your sculpture. A good piece of jewelry loads the subject with meaning. A pearl necklace over breast, a man with a tramp stamp fetish, a single gold stud in the nose. These things load their subject. A pin stripe on a car, a chrome bumper, a piece of jade set into marble, vajazzaling its nude surface.


See too: Lucy Skaer at Murray Guy


Monday, February 16, 2015

Lucy Skaer at Murray Guy


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Material lozenges, like rubies collected in video games, become desirous objects for their blank fungibility, accruing value through a repetition proving the intention of its gestures. Charging touch with value. An artwork so satisfyingly soft-core materialist it feels libidinal. Pleasure in things bare and touching with erotic palpate, shaped and soothed and inlain in lascivious exhibitionism, lain with cleave exposed, flayed like slabs of meat butterflied onto floor's blonde butcher-block soaking pink juice from the flanks, the pleasure of it all raw, vacant, there, exposed - and pierced with navel’s jewel making nudity fill with meaning.

See too : Toma Abts at David Zwirner , Michael E. Smith at Lulu , Alicja Kwade at Kunstmuseum St. Gallen