Ida Ekblad at Max Hetzler

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Ekbladian horror, the confidence of antagonist, of clowning amok, berating sense with maniacism. Composition used to have a sense, a logic, it genteel and formed, now the kids these days they spray kat litter, kick at walls, crust manga felines. The fun of this willful negligence, that, if those in power can be exonerated for gross incompetence, rise to the highest upon guilt free souls, it feels good to be an artist an able to do the same, love them for it.


See too: Ida Ekblad at Herald St. Joanne Greenbaum at Crone, Michaela Eichwald at Silberkuppe

Marepe at Max Hetzler

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Awkward sculpture and its attendant vernacular methods, what Peter Eeley called Marepe's "workaday ingenuity" loaded with Brazilian references whose"neo-Concretist intimacy" elides the "opaque mirrors" of cultural difference, here attempted to be smoothed by a PR's explication of symbols. Instead the press's hermeneutic attachmenting only underscores the bricolage, its endearing clumsiness. Performing all the necessary jury rigging to make functional an object with what's at hand.



See too: “The Crack-Up” at Room East (B. Wurtz) , Robert Grosvenor at Karma