Julien Bismuth at Parisa Kind

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The PR would have you believe that Bismuth is painting faces into the inkblot patterns, adding a layer of personal subjectivity that we could construe as "meaning" rather than arbitrary symmetries. The symmetry we've all but been proven to find attractive and alluring and thus their inscutability matters none, we are attracted to something that can never provide the release of information instead only decoration. And while there may be information encoded in the whorls a fingerprint can only be identified, it cannot tell you anything about its finger, this is a only a lure, to design a blankness we desire. A serviceable PR.

“International Laundry 2″ at Parisa Kind

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In art, all violence becomes symbolic violence, tearing paintings, cursing, showing tits and blood, is an acting out within the proscribed realm of one's own room owned by the hands feeding you, in the bed you've made. Art by its form neuters rebellion to the rebellious act. Aggression in neat little packages, and the louder artists yell the greater the distance between the two parties. The 4th wall's glass thickens and frosts, and no amount of angst, even a level requiring black eyeliner, has ever bridged the divide. This paradox of affect is one of art's central tenets. You just can't yell loud enough. (It works better in text, as Clerk Fluid attests, because we let you into our home.) But so this is why Christoph von Weyhe's paintings look so good in this room of everyone shouting.