Etel Adnan at Sfeir-Semler

Kahlil Robert Irving at Callicoon Fine Arts

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"Our growing attraction to garbage makes a psychologic sense as we become hostages to the trauma of dealing with it, the deranged images of garbage spewing, animals asphyxiated, learning of its intravenous networks sprawling across the landscape in unstoppable yet leaky pipes, garbage moved though our veins, seeing trash everywhere, [...] there's just stuff everywhere, stuff here a technical term for the quasi-differentiated mass, confusing a tarp, a trash bag and a tent."

Trash will become the fossils of our culture, picked through by deep future anthropologists foretelling the past what we didn't want to become part of our future. To see what we had no interest in bringing with us. Cast away. Like Melvin Edwards who reasserted the industrial body while minimalism pretended some purity in it, there's usually political content to the things we try not see.


see too: Melvin Edwards at Daniel Buchholz,  “May the Bridges I Burn Light the Way” at STANDARD (OSLO), Nancy Lupo at Kristina Kite & Yuji Agematsu at Miguel Abreu, Dylan Spaysky at Clifton Benevento, Ajay Kurian at White Flag Projects

Lee Relvas at Callicoon Fine Arts

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Like tangled Fred Sandbacks suspension given weight, delineating the space like glass you infer outlined in string, Relvas' outline infers a body confused, turned inside out, intestinal pirouettes, throwing up spaghetti into the air.


See too: Nicolas Deshayes at Modern Art

Nicholas Buffon at Callicoon Fine Arts

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The synecdoche of Buffon's New York rendered for figures of action, hypothesizing the manipulation of reality by the god-hands that can create it, Buffon instead lists the minor changes he makes to the banal reality surrounding him, which comes off as tragic. A world that you can create and instead replicating the world around you, the indifference within it, its own heroism.

see too: Pentti Monkkonen at High Art, Danny McDonald at House of Gaga, Nicholas Buffon at Freddy

Hervé Guibert at Callicoon Fine Arts



The photographs lay somewhere between Gonzalez-Torres takeaways and George W. Bush’s paintings. There’s a displacement of meaning, take significance from elsewhere. They’re meditative and reflective of the person who took them, while giving little insight. Nostalgic snapshots whose beautiful lighting ingrains a profound foreboding loss. Like Bush’s painting of him nude in the shower’s mirror, there is sense of a man reflective of the world around him, self-aware in time past. Like Atget whose photos pre-predict the loss inherent in empty Paris.