“2021” at Sydney

“2021” at Sydney

The decrepit and artifactual, pieces, there's something lovely forlorn about a single butt of trash like a rose. Good trash will bloom in the sun, wilt in the rain. We aspire to be like its emptiness, it vindicates our cities, we can see the whole world like a lens through the one discarded in the gutter. Trash reflects us, because we're better at deciphering ruins than cultures.


See too: Michael E. Smith at Sculpture Center, Nancy Lupo at Kristina Kite & Yuji Agematsu at Miguel Abreu, “May the Bridges I Burn Light the Way” at STANDARD (OSLO)

Quintessa Matranga at Freddy

(link)

Where water once symbolized the psyche is now our subconscious toilet, our autumnal metal, hellish networks of pipes rusting like our blood, carrying shit beneath feet, behind our faces, our love, diamonds, repressions, whichever. The PR mentions the Guggenheim's storied tubes, queuing turds down pipes while visitors line up for the higher purpose of placing things beneath us. The symbolic paths manifold. The point being: this is no longer the romantic era representing ourselves as fathomless depths; we are now better represented as plumbing: neurons, serotonin, fluids directed, misunderstood as monsters. All plain in Matranga's very unromantic depiction, refusing to state how we should feel about these things except any way but grand.