Happy 4th! Jesse Helms Is Dead.

Here.

Luke Whitlatch, The Key to a Cigarette is a Man Named Narch

I've been waiting for the show opening tonight at Rivington Arms, There is no there there, for almost two years. And for one reason: Luke Whitlatch. His work knocked me out two summers ago when I saw it in a group show of drawings at Daniel Weinberg Gallery in LA. I've been waiting for someone to show it here in NYC ever since. Kudos to Rivington Arms for rocking it by including Whitlatch in what looks like a pretty promising group show. Here's my initial reaction to his work. Weinberg also had some of his paintings at the LA Art Fair in 2007, and I went off all over again. Trust me on this one, kids.

Grown From Gone.

Had a wonderful studio visit with Christopher Spadazzi a couple weeks ago down at his studio in the Navy Yards. I first saw his work when David Humphrey tapped him for the first By Invitation Only group show at Feigen last summer. While his sculpture's shape looked like a special effects landscape from Star Wars, Spadazzi had installed wee tiny lights that looked like phosphorescent lichen glowing on some ancient, distant hillside.


Spadazzi plays saviour to dead objects and then puts them on their post-destiny path. It might be computer packaging. It might be deteriorating styrofoam he finds in the ocean while he's surfing Rockaway. One way or another, detritous is the stone from which he shapes his pieces. Restless in style the end results range from the aforementioned futuristic to the acid stalagmites that would fit nicely into a Mark Dean Veca painting.


When I was in the studio my eye kept returning to an absolutely gorgeous print on the wall. It was just a photo of machine filings and cotton, but it looked like forever. It reminded me of the Led Zepplin tune, Misty Mountain Hop. It's a song that stays in the moment until the very last lines when there's a blast of yearning for what's next. It's a lot like Spadazzi's art. Just when you think it's over, it ain't. It keeps going. Beauty tends to do that to the dead.

Books, books, books, books, books, books, and books.

It was a kick and a half to see Brian Bellot's work at MoMA recently. I LOVE this guy's work. I haven't seen a single thing by him that I've not liked. I went off on the wonder awhile back on Fallon & Rosof's Artblog and more recently on ArtCal Zine. Bellot's emotional, beautiful, and giddy work makes me emotional, beautiful, and giddy.

The Good Daughters.

Crushing show last night. Whew. The always fun and cranking Austerity Program got the old joints loose, but shit got stoopid serious when Daughters took the stage. Big tip of the hat to Mia and Jason for the introduction. Seriously. The band must sit around listening to King Crimson's Red and watching porn all day while bombing their systems with speedballs. Actually, nix the speedballs. There's no way in hell Daughters can do what they do with an ounce of, well, anything in their systems. Hell. I'd bet that they're all a bunch of teetotalers. Here. See what I mean? The singer was actually pretty subdued in that clip compared to last night. By the end of the show he was in his underwear and socks. This is how to get it done, kids.



Photos by the legendary Mia Gomez

A Reality I Must Face.

I was surprised that Thursday's Times article about the Warhol/Not-Warhol case never mentioned Gerard Malanga's desperate shenanigans of 1968 in Rome. I mean, if anybody gets to call a Warhol fake a fake it's Malanga. As far as I'm concerned, the price of the sale has already answered the question regarding authenticity. This story's over. That is, of course, unless you're Gerard Malanga or John Chamberlain. If that's the case, then it's just starting to suck for you. Seriously.


I took these photos at The Warhol two summers ago. The Time Capsule that they happened to have on display contained the Malanga's letters regarding the Che works. Awesome.

Little Cakes. Big Wonders.

My very fond farewell to the wonder that is Little Cakes just went up at ArtCal Zine. Don't fret, kids. They'll be back. I've no doubt. It's just a temporary separation. In the meantime, go see their last show.

Let The Power Fall.

The New York City Waterfalls are beautiful.

12-5.

Well, that was fun. Joe owes me a beer.