Derrick Adams at Rhona Hoffman

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Hard to be critical of a warm breeze. Hard to find injustice in pleasant days. A curmudgeon with the weather so good. The color amped to electrified sign. Color as a sign. Force fed pleasance. Not to rain on someone's parade. A "tropic interlude." Art becomes a fantasy, a vacation. A kindness we live vicariously through. We do a lot of living through these days.

Anne Wilson at Rhona Hoffman

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Tensioning the labor we value and the labor we don't. The communal labor of the hand, the weaver, the worker/laborer, versus the drip, the stain, which is seminal, authorial, and thus rich, valuable. (Which of course stains your grandma's tablecloth and teenage bedsheets.) We don't want hands, we want the mark of the hand. Hands are a mass product, but the drip is neoliberally genius. This is why there may be a healthy skepticism at the framing of communal labors in a realm of art, because generally art isn't great at spreading its rewards.

See too: “Kasten” at Stadtgalerie Bern

Robert Heinecken at Rhona Hoffman

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Mass images are startling, powerful, ubiquitous. Artists had commanded images. Ringing a lot of echoes to those churches earlier, and their, artist's, power controlled and wielded by the already empowered to show godliness, authority, divinity, before becoming a mass program of consumption that artists would now attempt some sort of dismantling, their overlords, to prove its understanding against. Envy or upset, art as stones against its Goliath, though artists claim not to be theists.