Theraflu Biennial.

I rolled out of bed at 10:30 this morning, pumped myself up with massive amounts of Theraflu and went to the Whitney Biennial press preview. Here's a bunch of pics. I'll add the artists' names when I wake up tomorrow (hopefully with a fever that has finally and decisively broken).


Fia Backstrom


Phoebe Washburn


Walead Beshty


Jedediah Caesar


Mika Rottenberg


Mary Heilman


Flora Wiegman

At the Armory . . .


The big room.


Michael Queenland


Bert Rodriguez


Ellen Harvey


Dexter Sinister


Kembra Pfahler


Olaf Breuning

Lull.

Joy "Very Much NOT In A Lull" Garnett, Harbor (2)

Sorry about the lull this month. I've been away on the weekends and haven't had too many opportunities to actually see art. This weekend I wound up with a wicked cold, and didn't make it out. Not to worry. The quiet will be ending with the Whitney Biennial press preview on Tuesday. Look for pics on Tuesday night.

For the record, if my head hadn't felt like a cantaloupe filled with cement I totally would have been making a B-line to Winkelman to see Joy Garnett's show. Last time I saw one of her paintings it was wrapped in bubble wrap in Winkelman's backroom and even then the painting's colors and sweep were busting through the plastic. I meant that metaphorically. I mean, like, the plastic part.

On a related note, I about coughed up a lung laughing at Ed Winkelman's recent middle name reveal on his blog . Trust me. You don't want to miss this.

Driving.

I always love when an artist takes a turn well, and Andrea Champlin seems to be doing just that. I've been digging Champlin's paintings for a number of years, and had gotten used to her style. The other day though, I came across this new painting (above) on her blog. She's shifting and adding to what was already a pretty killah repertoire. It reminded me that she had posted another shift signifier (below) a couple months ago. What's next for Champlin? Who knows. I just enjoy being in the car while she's hugging the corners so gracefully without even thinking about careening into that ditch. Put the pedal down.


Old school . . . Snowgasm from her 2004 show at Michael Steinberg.

Wonder Alert. (Updated)

Image totally swiped from White's blog.

Via her blog I just found out that Wendy White is doing a set of prints (ed. 35) with Flying Horse Editions to be published by Stuart Horodner. Um. Holy shit. Remember when she had me muttering profanities to myself in the middle of her last NYC show? Remember when she made my Top 10 list two years ago, and I declared Mary Boone lazy for not picking her up (That's OK. Leo Koenig did.)? There are a handful painters that make me this giddy when I see their work. I've got a good feeling about this. I'm betting that you will too. Do investigate.

UPDATE: White just posted more process pics.

Go Bang.

On the event of the artist's retrospective at the Guggenheim I just posted a little memory of Cai Guo-Qiang's Light Cycle over on my Creative Time blog. Light Cycle was the project he did for Creative Time in 2003. A number of people weren't thrilled with this piece. I wasn't one of them.

First Prize.

Hay! One of my faves, video artist Kate Gilmore, has a show up in Madrid at Maisterra Valbuena right now. Hop on a plane, kids. I think this piece, Blue Ribbon, is one that she made when she had her fellowship in Dijon. At least that's what the light looks like to me. I might be wrong, but I doubt it. Sometimes I know everything.

No Justice. No Post.

Andy Warhol, Justice Brandeis
© 2006 Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts/ARS, New York

That's another way of saying that the posting and the posts might be light this week. Between jury duty and being out of town again this coming weekend it's gonna be difficult to grab much quality computer time. If there is such a thing.

Click here to read Auric D. Steele's The Intersection of Law & Pop Culture about Andy Warhol, Justice Brandeis, and intellectual property law.

Campaign Stops.

In a discussion of political campaign posters that begins with Shepard Fairey's poster of Obama (see below), Steven Heller references one of Warhol's funniest and smartest political gestures today in the Campaign Stops section of the NY Times Online. Sorry, but nobody is ever gonna beat that poster for McGovern. Nobody. Ever. Although if Clinton continues to push the Florida and Michigan issue I'm totally down with pulling Warhol's concept back out of the drawer.

"... the poster that Andy Warhol produced in 1972: an impressionistic image, based on an official portrait of Richard Nixon under which Warhol roughly scrawled “Vote McGovern.” It was the height of irony in a campaign that later became known for its dirty tricks."

Skin.

I'm going away for the weekend, but I didn't want to leave town though without tipping y'all to Cynthia Lin's show that opens tonight at Michael Steinberg. I've met Lin a a couple million times, but I've never actually seen her art. However, every artist I know who's familiar with her drawings go into full-on RAVE mode when I ask about them. I've a good feeling about this one. Go.

Heart.

Andy Warhol, Human Heart

Love is awesome.

Leave. Julian. Alone!

If I had a video camera I would totally pull a Chris Crocker for Julian Schnabel. In his recent and amazing piece in The Brooklyn Rail, John Yau summed up pretty much everything I've ever thought about Julian Schnabel's painting (Not good. Not now. Not then.). And yet, I must say . . . Leave Julian alone.

Don't get me wrong. I think that Schnabel's paintings are, for the most part, shit. But I think he should keep making them. Leave the boy alone to do what he must do. Let him continue to give painters heart attacks when they see his work. Let him chase away the appetite of unsuspecting diners at Wallse. Let him play mayor of the far West Village. Give him his pajamas, his beautiful wife, his DPC-ready children. Encourage his Big Pink endeavors (Which I do love, by the way.). I don't care. Just leave the man alone with whatever damn ancillary activities he needs to rock if they lead him to create such gloriously great films as Basquiat, Before Night Falls, and he Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Seriously. Leave him alone. Use his illusion. Keep the balance right.

Saying Grace.

Sebastian Lemm

If you've been reading me for any length of time at all you know that all you have to do to get me to come to your gallery is to put Sebastian Lemm on your wall.

If you've been reading me for any length of time you'll know that if there's one thing that'll guarantee my visit to a show it's the work of Sebastian Lemm. And so it was that I visited Peer Gallery's group show, Grace where I found a number of nice surprises along with Lemm's usual solid work.

It's odd though. This time Lemm's work didn't immediately grab me. After a second pass at it though, what he was doing began to unfold in unexpected ways. The artist's deconstruction of the natural is a thrilling challenge to the viewer. Lemm's manipulated photographs follow one of the best (and really, only) art rules: Tell the lie well to get to the truth.


Susan Opton

Suzanne Opton's photographs of U.S. soldiers' heads at rest are striking. It's as if gravity, for a moment, is dressing their wounds. There's a sense of both relief and vulnerability in the photos. The hunch that that state won't last make the portraits heartbreaking.


Susan kae Grant
Susan kae Grant's pigment prints won me over immediately. Anytime an artist reminds me of Charles Laughton's The Night of the Hunter, both in theme and shadow, they win. Susan kae Grant won.


Melissa Fleming
Melissa Fleming's ghost oceans were right up my alley. These chromogenic prints capture what it feels like to watch the ocean at night, alone. Beautiful and private.


Jason Horowitz
In direct opposition to the colors and hues of Flemming and kae Grant's work was that of Jason Horowitz. I know I shouldn't have liked this c-print as much as I did, but I don't care. The tension between the repellant and attractive nature of the photo was too delicious to resist. I kind of couldn't stop looking at the damn thing.

Good Luck, Robin!

Um, I mean, Victor. Nah. I mean ROBIN. Rock the red carpet, girl.

Well-Lit Space.

Have they become so comfortable in their new building that the Times staff just sit around all day smoking weed or something? First this. And now this: a story about a recently-surfaced Warhol was buried in the NY/Region section today. Damn, man. I would love to get in on the vending machine action over there. Those puppies must be empty by the end of every work day. Pass the kouchie*, Mo.

But seriously. I just wanted to bring attention to that article in case you missed it. I'm among the minority of Warhol fans who actually like the dollar sign series.

*All respects to Sibbles and Mittoo.

Maria Bartiromo Special 18-1 Edition

I Heart Ellis G.

Here's a way to bankroll your art that nobody's thought of over at Deborah Fisher's wonderful Sellout . . . SUE THE CITY'S ASS OFF! Go, Ellis G. Five million bucks might be enough to teach the city not to bust this outline chalker and, um, 6 year olds.

Ellis G. lives somewhere in my neighborhood, and finally won me over about a year ago when I came across this big heart, a rare departure from his shadow outlines. Gotta admit: the dude's got woo. I was really a goner though when, over the summer, a young guy down the block died and amidst the candles and flowers in the sidewalk shrine was a sweet message from Ellis in that familiar, comforting chalk style.

Some people might wonder whether or not this is art. I'm not one of them. And yeah. It might be one note, but let's be honest. It's one hell of a note. All I know is that what was once a whimsical gimmick now feels like a thread. Go Ellis G.

I love this photo from the 2005 Times article.


BONUS TRACKS:
Here's the current_ documentary.
Here's his Myspace page.

Tom Mix.

It's no secret to y'all that I'm a total tapehead. The intimacy of the object is one of the things that I love most about cassettes. My understanding of that intimacy came from making 100s of mixtapes over the years for friends, lovers, and exceptional family members (I know. SUCH a snob.). That understanding also comes from the "handmade" nature of the things. Even at it's least decorated, the mixtape is something that involves the maker's hands. The mixtape is something made, not burned. Record. Pause. Cue. Record. Pause. Cue. Time. On and on. Add to the music the touch of decoration and design that some choose to distinguish their final product from others, and you've got an object I can very much live with.

So . . . it's more than appropriate that a museum with intimacy at its core (And a truly unique photo policy!), The Tom Museum, is having a Mixtape show. And in a very Tom move, we're all invited to participate. Shake off your reels and get recording, kids. Live the loop, baby.

Hat tip to oranje for the pointing of the out.

Doh!

If you're in Chelsea today you should most definitely NOT miss Joyce Pensato's ass-kick of a show at Petzel. Hell, if you're not planning to go to Chelsea you should change your plans because, my dear rock stars, this is the last day to see this show. Listen to Ed and Jerry. They know of what they speak in regards to the goodness herein. I can't claim to have been a long time fan rooting for her to hit the big time like these two. I'm just glad she did. I wandered into her killer show at Parker's Box in Williamsburg a couple years ago and was duly blown away. Do not miss this show. I know I've already said that, but seriously . . . like, for real. I'm betting that it's going to be on a lot of best-of lists for 2008. I'm pretty sure it's going to be on mine.

I Love Mary Boone (Well, most of the time.)

I like any conversation that gives me an opportunity to proclaim my love for Mary Boone, or at least her eye. That hadn't happened in awhile.

On the Heart As Arena trivia tip, the title of this post was the original name of this blog for about 5 days.

Always Walgreens.

Utilitarian.

Installation artist and printmaker Karla Roberts just released a new set of yummy prints. Do pass Go.

Where's my top hat?

Maria Bartiromo

Wish You Were Here.

On Saturday I found an extra half hour in my day so I stopped in to see the late Jason Rhoades' installation, Black Pussy, at Zwirner for the second time. I loved this show. I mean, I really loved this show. I am not going to use italics in this sentence. But seriously, I really loved this show.


I'd never seen any of Rhoades' work before, but after his death at the age of 41 it was impossible not to have heard about it. From what I'd read about this show (See Roberta Smith's laundry list here.) I was expecting to be bouncing towards a seizure from over stimulation. Yet this prayer to the inside felt more like a temple to me than anything. After five minutes in the room I felt a sense of reverence. We'll ignore how Freudian this paragraph has become and just keep moving.


Just to be clear, when I say "inside" I'm talking about the Webster's definition, "relating or known to a select group". Black Pussy feels very backstage or, maybe more accurately, after-hours. In it's original incarnation the artist populated the "set" with insiders and friends. Before the exhibit closed on Saturday, the ghosts of the artist and the included populated the space at Zwirner, making the nocturnal space into a waking dream. It was like walking through someone's heart. What was once private and the off-limits became public and well, mine. This one is going to stay with me. It already has. Wish you were here. I was, and I thank you for it, Mr. Rhoades, wherever you are.

As The Totally Awesome Turns.

In my neighborhood park . . .


I used to love that show. Plus it gave great stage actors like Larry Bryggman a way to make a decent living. And don't get me started on how much I'll always love Eileen Fulton for penning one of the funniest things I've ever read in my life: A short essay about, um, nipples in a mid-80's issue of National Lampoon that took the theme "Things I Hate". Actually, more than anything it was a complaint about the air conditioning at the CBS studios. At any rate, it was cool to see this sign in my park.

Nice Circle.

Remember this?


A few weeks ago I reported about finding this typed insert inside an issue of Art In America. My discovery officially became a nicely drawn conceptual circle the other day when a friend of inserter Chris Ouellette came across the post about the insert. (See my original post here, now with a fresh comment from the artist.) Wordpresser Gus23 wrote about his circuitous route through the ether to find his friend's name here on Heart As Arena. I wondered if something like this would happen when I made the original post. The internet is cool. Keep an eye out.

Split.

Luis Gispert's show, El Mundo Es Tuyo (the world is yours), severely splits itself between the Zach Feuer and Mary Boone galleries. I wasn't familiar with the artist's work before I walked into the former on Saturday. I immediately fell in love (It didn't last.). What can I say? I'm a sucker for heart-shaped speakers and big, abstract beats that drift off into the ether. Gispert provided me with both. The lit mirror that hangs across from the speakers looks like it was taken from the set of a Miami Vice, but that's not a bad thing. It goes with the room.


Actually, this show is replete with cultural references and commentary that, for the most part, I ignored. If you're interested you can read the press release. Sometimes I'm in the middle of an exhibit, it's working on a purely aesthetic level, and I just wanna sit in its pocket. Beyond the speakers and mirrors are a couple breathtaking c-prints. Opulence and abandonment hold hands while they're hiding under the bleachers here. At first glance both photos are detailed shots of a tricked-out truck cabs. It wasn't until my second pass at them that I realized that they were double landscapes. Looking out through the windows of each cab, past the immediate shiny foregrounds are scenes of poverty and paranoia. So much for my easy stroll through a shiny beat-littered forest. It signaled the violence that was to come in the film showing across the street at Mary Boone.

It all started so well.


Ugh. I say that not because of the violence. Whatever to that. I've spent enough time on farms that the bleeding of the pig didn't make me flinch. (Someday I'll regale you with how I saw a calf being born at the farm at the state pen. Long story. I was 12 and on the weirdest field trip of my life.) The frying of the dog was predictable and more like Tron than Chainsaw Massacre. Anyway, there has to be an easier way to make a radio. That was a joke, of course. I got the whole spin on the radio--the hungry, magical, and rabid sounds of the master blaster--I just didn't find it very interesting. I'm even a easy mark for that sort of thing and you couldn't have paid me to care. As much as I was enamored of the the two rooms at Feur I was bored by the film at Boone. I mean, ANYTHING looks cool projected on a wall that big, but so what. The film was just pointlessly gruesome and creepy. There were some more c-prints on the walls, but they were only stills from the film. Nice Firebird though.