Kyle Thurman at Sophie Tappeiner

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The suit is a vessel we project into, a blank everyman we can identify ourselves in. A male power fantasy, the mech suit or the business suit. The suit is painting. It's not even a metaphor. It is simply how art operates, as a receptacle, a fantasy projection screen, a sandbox dictatorship for the tiny artist dreams.

Angelika Loderer at Sophie Tappeiner

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"The mycelium disintegrates the fibers of the prints, and images." This artwork that self-destructs. Sorta.  The non-secret in a long history of artwork auto-destruction is that doesn't. Like the Banksy half-shredded, it merely performed spectacle. Valorizes itself, processes its material to create brand. Like a mushroom, or an artist, or the point.  What we need is not this psuedo-suicide. What we need an artwork that destroys other artworks. A giant chomping crushing machine. What we need is writing.

Sophie Thun at Sophie Tappeiner

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Forensic or creepy photo lab guy, you implicated in eyes looking back, our hands all over these eyes distinctly not from page 7 of the Victoria's secret catalog but something far more fragile, wounded or capable of. Not really much of the erotics of Paul Sepuya's, more like that Sky Ferreira album art that made people so uncomfortable. Uncertain, our relation. That Anne Collier structural cleverness that everyone seems to love.  Like Roni Horn's You are the Weather, the ever slight variations in a human face are alone more than enough for an artwork, face's ability to crumple, wither, and smooth itself in expression. Hand manipulate them to be so.