that's enough dippity bix ploise kim
jibe. Theres a kind of inner life there, and its the only sort of drawing that works.If this is a new beginning, its not the end of the world. The great, odd, serious, funny, and often tender painting that matters in the end is still the work of a young man who makes you want to run back and forth across the street, give your favorite gents a hug, and say hi.
that's enough dippity bix ploise kim jai. The idea of the colossal sculpture is simply that it is a good idea and, because it is an invention, we should all be able to use it, but there are some problems. The idea is not, as it should be, a matter of convincing us that the object is a work of art, that it is something we can all be proud of, but it is a problem of the absence of work as sculpture. I suggest that it is not a problem, but rather a problem of work as sculpture. The scale is enormous, and the material is surprisingly light. The work is an enormous, un-manageable, rather awkward, and, at the same time, quite serious, quite unself-consciously with its own material. The problem is that it is too big and too light for anything but the inside of a bus. The work looks like a childs toy, an idealized, self-invented toy. The monumental scale makes it difficult to see the work as a whole, and the scale is even more difficult to see from a distance, and the positioning is awkward as well. The work is not a sculpture, nor is it an object. Its scale is the scale of a work of art, and, as a sculpture, it is a monstrous work of art. It is not, however, a sculpture or a piece of sculpture. One can hardly imagine that it was meant as a sculpture, or that it had ever been realized as sculpture. It is an object, but one is not quite sure what object it is. The work is in the wrong place, and, perhaps, it is the wrong place to be.The problem is that the piece is too big, too light, too unself-consciously. The sculpture is too big, too light, too unself-consciously. The sculpture is too big, too light, too unself-consciously.
, but the spectacle is bleakly suggestive. The ring is the most striking element, although it comes off as merely formal—the connotation of a furniture decoration, like the stage curtains, but trashed. Its the edge of the world and it is a bit scary, but in this case the edges are slippery, like the paper. Still, there is some freedom here: the question of the works existence is not settled, and the central question of whether they are exhibited as sculpture or furniture is still a matter of debate. This isnt really a neutral situation; it is one that demands a certain degree of resistance, of resistance to certain assumptions. A possible effect is that the objects are more mysterious. I don't think so. The problem is that the work is not much more than a clothesline; it is only art, and its presence is disconcerting. That is the same as it is in any other context.
that's enough dippity bix ploise kim to me, and I dont like it.Still, theres the other guy: Peter Glad, whose paintings, which feature images of, say, a naked man being gagged, in a particularly tasteless manner, are nothing but a long-necked lion and a pussy. He has also done paintings of a monkey with a tatty ass and a nasty head, and a rat with a prosthetic ass whose dick is a goddamn rock. Theres something about this guy—a donkey penis, a face made out of colored pencils, a smile that glowers out of a mouth with a fucking eye—that says, You know what? Its art, and thats art. To me, its either an intellectualized monstrosity or a logical one. In my eyes, theres an art-historical kind of great big cuckoo, and thats what I like about Glad paintings. He has the wit of a Jim Carrey, and I love that. Theres a lot of big, fat dick stuff in them, and thats all I like. Glad has had a lot of success. Its time to stop. Hes too rich to be fooling anybody, and hes too smart to be fooling anybody. Hes a fool. If hes ever in a real gallery, Im sure hes got the nerve to turn up with the big dick paintings, which is the real point of his work. Hes got the wit, and he knows how to use it. Hes got the touch. He knows how to work with a brush. He knows how to take on the tough stuff. Hes got the ability to do both, and hes doing both. So whats the problem? Its a matter of taste. Its a matter of taste as well as class. Lets move on, and let the class debate begin. I dont like it.
bering. Also, the fact that a whole room is packed with tiny, tasteful and diminutive, tiny, and tiny, small, and giant, and each wall decorated with a hand-painted art deco landscape, makes the most of the toy-like, meretricious setting, and is sure to make any viewer want to vomit. The only thing is that the artist, a woman, and her work are so mesmerized by the white emptiness of the empty space that it doesnt matter what the context is, as long as its there. By the same token, its a little jarring to find out that they have just ended up with the blobby, rounded, globular, and egg-shaped forms that show up in the paintings. Theyre just so elegantly done and symmetrically arranged that they look like a bunch of anonymous blobs in a pile of jellybeans. Theyre about as cute as a duck but more threatening, as if they were some sort of nasty, lolling, high-jumping bear. Theyre creepy, and theyre funny, and they look as if theyd been made by some guy who paints in a room filled with dummies and foam heads. Its probably the type of job that shouldnt be done by a woman.