Hanna Hur, Dorothea Rockburne at Ulrik & Nick Oberthaler at Layr

(Ulrik, Layr)

Geometry day down at CAD. Art demands religion be turned secular, into math, "art" which allows belief in higher powers without the pesky god. Angels to origami, optics. Oberthaler too deletes the gods of abstraction, transmutes their capital to symbols, coinage, packaged as Campbell's soup cans. Art is good at performing these transubstantiations, making blood into wine, into something we can taste, connoisseur, if not necessarily need believe. 

Chris Johanson at The Modern Institute & Nancy Shaver at Derek Eller Gallery

(Modern Institute, Derek Eller)

Arbitrary color day down at CAD. A pleasure. One sinuous nature, the other city grid. Both a means to accumulate their flower, the excellent non-point of it all. 

Machteld Rullens at Andrew Kreps & PAGE (NYC)

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Cardboard is the flesh the monster uses to distribute its egg. Through the tunnels of a mechanized network the paper greases transit, a soft sheath. The flesh sloughs and becomes waste. Waste is our problem. Too much, barely recycled. Waste becomes anxious substance. We need to "deal with." The artist does what the artist does. Transform anxiety by stapling it to wall. Adhering it to our landscape. Outside the streets glut with substance, a baleful amazon. So we deleted the windows in place of virtual white, stood in for with an artists rendition of old winter. A soft parasite.

Group Show at Derosia

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Large time is measured in amounts of crust. The sedimentary layers of geologic time, the half-inches of coral bones measuring years. Everything being buried, so slowly it's concealed. The dust accumulating day-to-day unnoticeably until a high-shelf's gray suddenly disgusted, its slow burial in ash. We speed the process by our anthropogenic layering, the landfills ticked in eras of Christmas trends, a furby layer, the urban stratigraphy of asphalt to roman roads. Dust Breeding. Moyra Davey, Walead Beshty, artists accumulating patina. A slower landfill, a glitter of entropy: divorce. Everything accumulates a dark, the dust to which we will return. This is the promise, more crud, marked by our artists' endless sunsetting.

LaKela Brown at 105 Henry

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Treating our cultural symbols as fossils is a refreshingly honest take. This is what art does today. Imports culture to play anthropology. You sediment facts, say the "amount of money that would have averted a 12 year old's death," as a skeletal relic, a specimen, into painting. So art can play forensic insight. This is how the artworld "deals" with the world, how it allows the world into the museum, the world it wants to talk about but can't without the permission slip of painting. If there's critique here it's in the artist being forced to perform "a harvest" of themselves for the altar of art, being made willing and complicit to do so, for the blue haired vampires demanding cultural sacrifice in totems, dystopian trophies for the wall.

See too:  "...inventories of our blossoming desires ... bleaching like coral reefs whose left white skeletons trace a once thriving culture... a ghost of taxonomic fossils remaining, held for the assessment of all the dreams of a life embedded."

Luz Carabaño at Hoffman Donahue

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You know how the gentle but complex shapes in worn pastels of used bars of soap are kind of always beautiful? Well imagine those shapes on your porcelain white, you looking down into them, and there a kind of seeing pool, a bar of soap screening faded and out-of-focus vintage film reels. Things you remember and fuzzy. Yeah kinda like that. Your ability to believe in this will mark your reception to. They are but soap, and that's important. 

Jiang Cheng at Tara Downs

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The 19th century's joke was painting faces positioned next to flowers and 20th century's joke was painting a face like it was flowers. Now what? A face is just the putty we rearrange in hopes of arranging something like meaning. An endless mine to profit from, our faces. Something we can pump. We're inordinately cruel to ourselves.

You can paint a face like a sunset. It will let you. Rearrange eyes, nose, mouth - a surgeon from hell, Picasso. Tyrannically bend people for aesthetics. These seem somehow more tender. Maybe its the close cropping, which take serious the surface, flesh, rather than rearranging a Mr. Potato Head. (Deleuze famously remarking that Bacon didn't paint faces but heads, meat.) Maybe it's this painting a face, painting it like a Monet, a low-irony too-serious painting for today, implying a minimum of self care. Artists finally part of the beauty industry, these look like it. Who doesn't want to look like a water lily?

Meredith James at Marinaro

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We've professed our love for Cletus Johnson, for the illuminated entrance, a threshold all facade. So yes, of course, these. Film screen projection, places for mental exit.  Like Masaccio's The Holy Trinity, pictorial painting was a virtual place you could enter. We forget this, so we build models now to remind us what was so obvious then. You can enter painting.

See too: So the couch becomes the projection screen for us, the surveillance into us, like looking back asking the question: "Before our we uploaded to the cloud what were we?" back through the screen to see reality - or its cave - through the remains.

Bagus Pandega at Swiss Institute

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Is there a history of the myth of mad scientist? How it led from Frankenstein to Flux Capacitors to Elon Musk's share price? We buy into big air quotes "science" somehow, eternally, this belief in the lab, in eccentrics tinkering. Think: computer chips we don't understand powering black boxes we can't get inside underpinning markets' growth we can't predict. But it is growing, against all speculation, growth. So hook a plant to wires, make the mushroom sing. It doesn't even need to get results, the art is getting believe to believe in your company, believe in something more, art, Elon. This is where tech-bros, art, and the new age coincide, gesticulation of tropes conjuring a higher plane?


See too: Youtube is full of mushrooms making music. Electrode strapped fungi pulsing midi machines. One mushroom plays the keyboard. If only the forest floor could speak. Remember when you could buy CDs of whale sounds? The new age reverberates. Here deforested wood planks are let to scream their political messaging. We don't know what they actually say, and that's important to art, which has been absolved the responsibility. The highest order of art is gesticulation. A charade. A game played by two teams, where one member acts out a word, phrase, or title in pantomime (without speaking) for their own team to guess.

David Benjamin Sherry at Nicelle Beauchene Gallery

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From the success af Klint on shopping bags to the dredging styles of the Santa Fe transcendentalists - there's something in the air wanting spirit. But you can't mention god in a press release. (The word spirituality was only recently allowed back in the gates.) So the landscape is a neutral country, a naturalism speaking to god with alibi of the secular. But we want belief in more. A common side effect of nervous time. We want the landscape rendered as spectral presence, to see safety in the sharp corners of the world commanded hazard-yellow by higher powers. Now beg for the higher powers Polke once provided.  

Bettina at Ulrik

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Most artists today produce "series" - their commodification of a single artistic thought. For many art itself has become a form for inventing processes to serialize, commodify, i.e. "the production method is the product." Developing a "viewpoint", "signature" or "conceptual framework" - pick your ballyhoo'd sales tactic. A historic development likely due to the demands of both filling an exhibition schedule, and the fact that "the exhibition" had superseded the object as art's measurable unit of thought. Perhaps one stemming from the other. Bettina was an artist who, without any exhibition schedule or inventory space at all, mass invented means for artistic mass production, and then followed through on that production beyond the point of rational good thought - eventually filling her apartment so full she slept in the hallway on a lawn chair (or so the myth goes.) It's like an artistic Sorcerer's Apprentice, one conceptual Library of Babel spell is invented and the things begin to spawn, producing and reproducing until you live outside in a different world, unable to invent the spell to shut the brooms off. 

Elizabeth Englander at From the Desk of Lucy Bull & Theta

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Modernism, freed from the weight of so much bronze ego, returned to a provisional idea. Even again stealing from the east. A maquette for. Admit its vaguely refreshing, with our current moment's endless barfed modernist returns, to see a [s]crappy version. Removing the weight, coronation, though keeping its look, ghost, spirit. Always trying to reincarnate, the eternal.

See too: At one end you have the trash reassembling to totem and at the other end the figure shredded into composition. They meet at the same point, our expectations of art, an object as cultural phantasm...

"Art is symptom of death's fear, and men erecting their 'monuments,' tumescence, to outlast them, the fear. Thus most art is cast iron, unwilling impermanence or loss. But so much humanity isn't iron, instead it is kept in acidic cardboard, gnawed at by the affection rifling through it.."

Andy Meerow at Derosia

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Probably the best thing you can say about Meerow's work is that it doesn't really fit anywhere. Which in that sense it's abject. A sort of non-thing. The image equivalent of goo that collects in the sink mesh. The only throughfare is the non-identity of it all. There's no signature Meerow work. It all denies each other, stylistically or production-wise or anywise. Why they feel accumulatory. The endless sense of having seen it before, but not in this way, the sieve collects hair, wilted spinach, feta, bits of wrapper, a boy's face, almost already digested. This is not the wanton soup of Brodmann or Brand (or the Picasso by Guston trend). This is real postmodern soup and disgusting. Look that one's leaking. 

See too: Max Brand, Vittorio Brodmann

Robert Longo at Pace Gallery

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Years after achieving the feat of making himself a copy machine, Longo finds the contrast button. Exactly what everyone was asking for, hotter flames, more incendiary images. A further polemicized black and white. It's all so fucking stupid. Militarized images. What the right winger sees as awesome in a big black assault weapon, the liberal sees in these murdered out politics: hyperbole of power's simulacra. "Such exaggeration feels perverse." If this is in fact politics, why are we stylizing it? Enter Benjamin.

This would all be ignorable as so much blue-chip hoo-ha. But the fear here is that a museum is going to buy these so they can hang history, not art, in their museum, an artwork that is really just an exclamation mark for the wall didactic next to it, barely art at all, just a drawing in the shape of a really pointy arrow. Just show the photograph, the history, you actually want.



See too: "Throbbing and stupid. Images of 'power' drawn as massive black portenders. ... they extrapolate out, reuse, clad their look in the same black garb of SWAT, to make you feel small. Mutate their humanitarian subjects into a threat with the Darth Vader aesthetic they purport to critique, Longo's assault drawings, men and their big scary black"

Megan Marrin at Francis Irv

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You can tell this is conceptual painting because there's a question mark over everyone's head. Which possibly makes it representational painting, at least symbolic. But it is another of the artist's re-presentations of a bygone era's aspirational objects looking more like something out of Spirit Halloween. 

Eloise Hess at Chapter NY

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How to objectify photography. Encase the elusive "moment" into something more ... preservative. Not the fetal pigs' brine but a wax. The rise of endless photography filters eventually irrupt an ultra-sepia, casting it in mud, the nostalgia of stone. The contradiction of etching our fleeting into earth.

See too: 

"We find some comfort in dirt smeared not because of its primeval "truth" but because it seems like it can't obsolesce, it can't be superseded, can't be blown away as dust, which we mistake for being eternal."

"..a gloss of preemptive nostalgia. Like instagram filters made to affect 70’s grain on crystalline microlenses - implanting an artificial comfort into the cold of its technologic clarity - Davey went from photographing the dust and stains that mark human touch and embody nostalgia, to pre-placing that touch on the photographs.."

 "art often feels like a process, technology, for imprinting nostalgia. Casting banality in bronze, silver, with a halo of rose. " The Sontagian elegy as an Instagram filter.

Lutz Bacher at Galerie Buchholz

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Every Bacher work is its tombstone, a final gesture, a remnant for someone to remember. In this exhibition monuments to a fiction: sci-fi explorers of galaxies that Bacher, in other works, would xerox into dust. These are the fictional navigators of that dust — cosmic in scope, absurd in premise."The absurdity and nihilism of cosmic scales entering the personal ones" is taken up by sci-fi as a sublime, the bold explorer who will never see even a portion of it all, but into the night boldy goes. This is Bacher's oft-premise of the doomed gesture of trying to contain, label, some part of humanity as it makes it way towards expected apocalypse, the cusp of obliteration. All the information in Bacher's work already contain the threat of their loss. Like a museum to a fiction - it is already gone. A Science categorizing dust to which we shall return. But their universe, being, exists in its telling, and so these monuments, in keeping the story alive, keep their being alive. Of course it's a fiction so it's already dead. Just like you. It's both optimistic and absurd, haunting and comedic, stupid and sincere, making it lifelike, and fictional, perfectly Bacher.

 

see too: ten years of writing about Lutz Bacher.

Elliott Jamal Robbins at Kai Matsumiya

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Not quite drawing, nor painting, nor animation. Not quite Kentridge or Madani or Churchman's Painting Treatments. More Guston's heads. But messier. More nebulous. A tough position when we demand art be "about something;" want the museum jewel of didacticism - or the troll of question's eyerollingly forever. But these happily float in goo and blood and guts. It's more Pope.L writing jokes without punchlines, the unease in letting an audience hang. Be with themselves over this mess. Sketches without objects, just sketches, which are real ideas. "A drawing does what so much art must artificially prevent - its exhaustion. A drawing is only an idea, a scratch pad for the realized candy. The drawing is instructions for a creation inside your head. What SFX and kunsthalle budgets can concretize will never match the monster hiding in the closet of your mind."

See too: "If laughter was the earthquake alleviating the tension of the joke, then Pope.L's don't really relief its valve. A refusal that turns humor into a weapon where misunderstanding the joke might have risks. "White Peo abstr ation." Pointed fingers. What are the stakes of misunderstanding? The generalized artworld fear of misinterpretation becomes conflated with the generalized fear of Blackness, of one's foot in one's mouth, of white spaces suddenly filled with an innuendo that doesn't confine itself to safe quotational space of art..."

Robert Lostutter at Derek Eller Gallery

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The blockbuster Chicago Imagist retrospective we need is overdue, might be ten years too late at this point. The movements today which took so much from it, the "Millenial Real," are pretty much over.  Replaced with a more Corporate Memphis figuration. It's been all so assimilated, these look like yesterday but they were 50 years ago. It's a failure of an artworld to collectively remember. CAWD, ten years ago: "the kids grown on cartoons have arrived and their childhoods have coincidentally, absurdly, become the accurate depictions of the way the world has begun to feel, and will soon become generic, but at least we'll get to stop repeating ourselves." Still repeating ourselves.

Rachel Harrison at Greene Naftali

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Always thought the Harrison crust blobs were symbolic shorthand for "sculpture." Their lumps confused authentic and a stand-in for it, like a movie prop modernism. And collected detritus like a provisional gum. They were too stupid to be real, too caveman to be serious. But eventually the movie prop becomes real, or tries to, and we're left considering it. Which may be the eventual resurgence of interest in Harrison, when we stand to think all the fake art we are being forced to consider. 

see too: The hipster too was a semio-naut; whose careful balance of fashion’s signs were an additive and appropriative construction of appearance and identity, a careful facade of references, and so the concurrent rise of Rachel Harrison [with the hipster] makes symptomatic sense