Koichi Enomoto at Nonaka-Hill

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This on the other hand is the Pollockification of figuration. The splatter gun school of content. The drips become sign systems, limbs, etc. Painting is the flypaper of culture. Collects its surreal. All forced into the depth of an Ipad, or again, Beckman. Painting as your punk jacket assembled and stitched with the cultural buttons you find neat. 

Ulala Imai at Nonaka-Hill

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Sufficient to portray, not anything more - its own aesthetic. They depict the thing. There it is. The sign painter's pleasure. Paintings that feel sort of worn in, faded, like your life. The things ready to date themselves, the air exposed fruit, the bordering passé culture - it's all so ready to expire. Which makes them skulls.

Kaz Oshiro at Nonaka-Hill

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The meta games of painting we play, teasing all the ontological buttons that make a show of its questions. When it's good it's hallucinatory; bad, it's Disney Land. "Removed from the packaging artworks and butterflies disperse, cling everywhere, etherealize into suspicion for them." Everything becomes corrupt, seeing suspicious butterflies everywhere.


See too: Michael E. Smith at 500 Capp Street Foundation

Kazuo Kodonaga at Nonaka-Hill

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The department store catalog of naturalism we now need as the world virtualizes under fingertips; in the future there will be booths where you will pay 25 credits to touch wood, feel dirt, see a tree, watch archival footage of rain. "Each living thing, plant or animal, has a soul"and so torture its material to get to "dance," incise a tree to watch it split open its innards, flayed logs like medical brains, melting glass frozen in slumping deformity, raking wood over coals to a toasty sunburn. The exhibition even has a little informational video showing the process, a common sight at trade shows, demonstrating by extension how close you are to the subject lost, glass isn't good enough we display it.


See too: N. Dash at Casey Kaplan