abstract deep high low happy
abstract deep high low happy !!! but there is a grave-dwarf element to the works: The last panel of the ten-panel work depicted a photograph of a nude girl in a pool of water—a portrait in a time-warping room. These powerful images brought to mind the women in the paintings of Jacqueline Gugliotta (one can only guess that she was really in the artist's own class). This woman, a well-drawn interior model, dominates a pre-Renaissance female-being that seems to be never-ending: showing the fragile objectivity of the photograph and the intimate side of what we might call contemporary sexuality. The girl's knees bend just enough to pose. Her figure is a virtual denial of gravity's pull, and in turn the picture seems to signify a kind of subjective gravity, a metaphysical not-quite-abandoned. In this way, the image captures the mystery of the naked female body: the proof of the persisting power of desire, the elusiveness of the image, as well as the sense of the artist's gendering her own body, her own make of those days in the flesh.Szeemanns long-term interest in the face—what happens when a picture is hung as an object, as in a painting—is key. The exhibition features portraits of himself and his friends taken by the photographer; some of the photographs were taken during a current exhibition, and some were taken after the artists died. In addition to the works on paper (those with printed drawings) and the photographs, Szeemann presented a series of drawings, a seemingly endless number of figures that occupy a kind of boundless register of recognition. They seem to turn to be empty on one level or another, a blank stage on which all the possibilities for representation, both abstract and physical, may be multiplied, or perhaps simply thrown away.
été épocap (all works 2010). The paintings depict the scene of a hit-and-run homicide, with the owners of the murdered vehicle, their vehicles lying next to the bodies. Along with the phrase adieu, a humorous card depicting a carjacking in which a masked assailant shoots his victims, this work actually derives from the building he ransacked in The Vanishing Point, 2007, a picture of the shell-shocked hero of that Gothic narrative (an allegory that would now seem quaint). But the final painting instead depicts the victim slumped in the bed of his apartment, and the expression of sorrow and despair on his face is somewhat muted by the elegance of his silver armor.Fuss anticipatory works are no less dense than the lighter ones, but they lack the drama of the action. A recurring device is a two-panel wall-projection of a scene cut from a four-panel drawing of a deck of cards; the scene is then rendered in acrylic on a mat. The positioning of the scene, the overlapping images, the color—all are all together here, and the reduction of what might otherwise have been a large-scale painting to a few bits of skin—makes the images more harmonious and feels at once frivolous and real. Fuss works on paper show that she is as interested in the fantasmic qualities of her materials as in the demands of the medium, and the juxtaposition of things she paints—tears, bubbles, smudges—reinvents and negates the first and is thus always present. Yet a certain beauty seems to have been lost: The images, on one hand, are colorful, colorful, and rather gross, and on the other, even more beautiful—and it is all very crisp and pretty, too.
iddy usencompass. A bandanna and a butterfly suit (taken from the Virgin of Guadalupe, Baja California, Mexico) were strategically placed on a broken eggplant, while a small cast of a great blue lung was placed beside the chimney, evoking a puffy, hard-to-measure brain. The blue lung is a cipher for the lower respiratory tract, a symbol of free association and the free fall of signification. In the background, a mesh fence served as a border between the floor and the windows, both of which functioned as walls. The red and green mesh fences, placed on the floor and window tops, respectively, functioned as barriers between architecture and the environment. The artist has also used lower-body resistance as a means of refracting the space. On one of her earlier canvases, Untitled (Expo), 2006, she combined the jolting twitching of a clenched fist with the ticklish tickle of a single, well-placed foot to evoke the staccato rhythm of the organic world of the subway.The installation was grand, and grandly creative: Davis was able to transform the gallery into a dangerous entity of unbridled imagination, full of the adventurous expression of an adolescent imagination. We had a feeling she could really push this, or any, wild idea to the edge of chaos and deformity. By bringing together fantastically conceived, high-powered forms of radical expressionism, Davis engaged us with the ambiguities of the wild.
abstract deep high low happy dance. The pendulum swings of the dancers vary from uptight, fast, to delicate, slow. The most interesting segment is perhaps that of John Browns Heavyweight No-Show (Green Ribbon), a high-tech version of something like a Lionel Rich show. Brown presents a full-length row of rubber mats (the legs of which are painted black), a red silk blouse, and black T-shirt. He is all set, except for the T-shirt, which he has stopped at the waist to reach for, leaving only a rectangle of trash where the rubber mat has been, like a trash can, in place of a medal. Browns T-shirt is identical to his T-shirts red silk blouse, but one has slightly different sleeves, so his hairdryer had to hurry up to do a good deed.Here a bunch of love-it-or-hate-it artworks; they work, and sometimes cant really be taken seriously. The casts are more representative of semi-serious painting than serious art, and its no surprise that theyre composed as they are, in part, of cardboard and paper. Theyre all still trying to be serious, to be somehow less obscure than the T-shirts, and I cant help but wonder that their vitality should be more guarded than carelessly displayed. The soft, wet, soft feel of the T-shirts is that theyre actually effeminate and without expectation. They are artistically meaningless to me, but they also dont seem to be art, and theyre just also essentially life objects. What I mean by sensuous art, as used to say, is one that has no inherent logic or composition, and is all about the elements, about how you make them, what you think they should be, and about what they are.
abstract deep high low happy icky icky, and fucking icky—that all the more resonates when viewed in the context of the surrealist and post-Surrealist subculture, where bodily proximity is the primary driver of signification and identity. This installation, part of a more ambitious project, now takes up another critical aspect of intimacy: its ability to validate the borders between prison and prison, sacred and profane. (The aforementioned androgyny could be interpreted as a reference to the culture wars, but whether it is intended or not, the resonances are there.) The works title, Murder at the Crossroads, 2015, comes from a line from the poem Alice, one of the works many credits: A murderer might walk the same line as an innocent, and each individual carries on his cross as if nothing were to separate him from the other. The piece also draws on the history of art as prison. Piled up in a room in the exhibition were wooden figurines—at first glance, two generic, childlike things—but on closer inspection they appeared to be intricately made figurines, elaborately framed, all the more so by the insertion of their backs into the gallerys frame. Each figurine is shaped differently to form the upper part of its body, and the viewer must work to be certain of their correct placement and placement in relation to one another.But the works precise execution is undermined by the works placement: The skeletal precision of their folding bodies recedes into a border of hidden images. The figurines are missing limbs, not composite bodies. The surfaces of the walls seem to invite us to question the idea of finality—the morbid need to situate the individual body in relation to the rest of the world.