Rirkrit Tiravanija at MoMA P.S.1

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A dinner enshrined, behind closed doors, enshrined in an image. Posted on this day of our own relational aesthetics, Christmas Eve. So when you pass your uncomfortable uncle the taters imagine the utopian world foods you could be enjoying. Think of art as your moral compass, the curry you could be sharing. 

We need someone to unpack what happened here. And this is it; this is the case study. From utopian salespitch to museum display.  The salespitch is enshrined as meaning. This is the machine of art. It's not quite history, not quite record. It's a series of things that point elsewhere, are elsewhere. But we're here. Asked to be elsewhere. A long explanatory text explaining the process of this. How art in its current regime promotes this, basically corrals all art into this, endless meaning elsewhere.

Samara Golden at MoMA P.S.1

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Unlike Escher, which these staircases has often been compared, Golden's space, after its initial disorientation, does resolve itself, perhaps its saving grace, quiet, cavernous, amping the qualities inherent to that most peculiar of PS1 spaces, a vastness that Golden doubles but leaves uncluttered of the overstuffed visual mania characterizing previous work. Its one of the most visually silent Golden has made, exactly what saves it from the spectacle that it seemed destined to be by the museum would desire it so. The world beneath the mirror, seeming more ordered than real it reflects, is tinged with a pathos, unreachable and still, sunk under the surface of the water. A perfect stage set waiting for its film, a spectacle besting even recent Hollywood blockbusters, or any image in what could been the surrealist joyride of Inception.