Piero Gilardi at Frankfurt Am Main

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Another artist who fled after disgust at his own commercial success, his astro-turf so in demand they were "at times delivered to the galleries in huge rolls and sold to collectors by the yard."  What was it making an industrial mockery of the land so desirous to the rich. Was it death-drive chic, or did we think then it so fantastical the notion of artificial earth, or were we starry eyed over the possibility: the earth produced on rolls by the yard, or at least something imitating it. The artist came back, to produce it in hermetically sealed rarified versions, probably much closer to our reality, "Our world's end, celebrate it with a commemorative lamp" still in vogue:


Cooper Jacoby at Freedman Fitzpatrick, “May the Bridges I Burn Light the Way” at STANDARD , Max Hooper Schneider at High Art, Amy Yao at Various Small Fires(OSLO), Nancy Lupo at Antenna Space

John Miller at Meliksetian | Briggs

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What was so flashy twinkling across televisual space is frozen as the wallpaper of painting and hideous: television zazzle becomes the bad struggle to taxidermy it. The Price is Right, running for over half a century, has done something right commanding midmorning viewers through a Vegas labyrinth watching guesses at the price of garbage, but Miller's focus on the chintz is as much an attack on painting as much as any politics of mass entertainment premised on the evaluation of commodities. This the point surely. Because the television game is no different from the majority of dealers and collectors also guessing the eventual price or status of the painting before you. The critic/viewer only plays into the game because the paintings are dead, and bodies assessing providing breaths for its life support. The transpositional point where glitz is equal to the stagnant monochromes.

Donald Judd at Judd Foundation

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Last week CAD you may have noticed went the entirety and a day without having to hear the pronoun "his" - a week without men - before a cruel about-face returning today to the cold metal schlongs of Judd at Judd. (Perhaps only softened by yesterday's Parsons's own stiff worldly segmentation, a toughness sure.) But too within Judd's megalomaniac austerity and attraction to hard rectilinears there seems way deep down some faintest window dressing, latent decoration, just slightly less than complete hetero-masculinty, a certain desire to see his contraption in new colors. Compared to some of his minimalist brethren Judd there are moments of Judd downright garish, almost camp.  Which doing some napkin math the series' dimensions - 15 x 105 x 15 centimeters - is, according the wikipedia page on the subject, within the statistically probable proportions of human penis length. Which now wondering how many sculptures would fit this description. Like Serras staggering concern for the erection set, something Judd's attraction to rigidness dressed in colors and sheens that feels just a little bit...

Laurie Parsons at Museum Abteiberg

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Parsons, like Cady Noland or Lee Lozano, our fascination with those who leave the artworld. Like astronauts who never return, what did they find out there? They live on other worlds, but their objects remain in ours like clues to their disappearance. Sarah Lehrer-Graiwer followed the evidence leading to Lozano's dropout in a complete detective novel, but even finding her still alive in new worlds left her there and returned home to our world to write about it. Parsons's are objects from the world she went to, we are the aliens.

Julia Dault at Marianne Boesky

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The process oriented abstraction that gave us so much overwrought and gentle wallpaper whose blandness that proved its conceptualism takes itself a little less self-justifying here and more somewhere between no two Charlene von Heyl paintings looking quite the same meeting Sarah Morris's every painting looking the same in a Bernard Frieze like system where the means only somewhat justify the ends: a programmatic delivery of a consistent experiment, not inventing new processes but new designs for that product, not quite responsibility evaporated but chance fun.

Kirsten Pieroth at Mathew

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Residuals, remains, ashes, essence, marks, history, artifact. Your own level of animism denies or allows belief in encoding memory into objects. Or be like an On Kawara painting, encapsulating the object by presenting its ghost. Our fingerprints are ours, but we cannot be created from them. We leave traces, deformations in the world in our shape. At the end, ashes; perhaps your name scratched in history, or a hint of your face in a generation of children, offspring who are getting the residuals. But the object is gone, and like all behaved conceptual art there is a story.

Louisa Gagliardi at Open Forum

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Painting has body but ink has that sheen perfect in fashion, surfaces whose shapelies have been excavated until mere skeletons hanging clothes and skin to glow. That like Gagliardi's paintings the body cut for their tubular photoshop skin, cartoon mirroring our model's own el Grecoing bodies into lanky warbling sticks, printed in advert sweat, inks, magazine glass. That wet look, pavement in the rain under sodium streetlamps, inky, in the surfaces where even the lighting appears moisturized. Painting adopts different vernaculars, TOM FORD FOR MEN, appearing new.  A whole exhibition today called PVC fetishism - that the youthful today, raised in glass-inflected magazines, slick cartoons, feed though plastic, eventually adopt affinities for that torrent of slickness, we start to print our dreams on vinyl.


see too: Tony Conrad's Glass, Olga Balema at High Art, Olga Balema at High Art (2), Nicola Tyson at Friedrich Petzel, “Puddle, pothole, portal” at Sculpture Center,