This is the sort of exhibition that makes a critic question the quality of their judgment.
Some forms of abstraction simply scream ‘my kid could have made that’.
An uninspired re-staging of the artist’s Camden Arts Centre show.
There’s joy in repetition. There’s joy in repetition. There’s joy in repetition. There’s joy in repetition. There’s joy in repetition. There’s joy in repetition.
To appreciate Christo’s early works against his wishes, one must forget his later stunts.
These gestures remind the gallery that it is a social space. Unfortunately, they also inadvertently point to its sorry end.
I knew that it was possible to understand art and life less after seeing an exhibition. I didn’t, however, imagine that experiencing Wielebinski’s work twice would only compound such damage.
Auer is more interested in the fate of painting than humanity and thus stands apart from the army of zealots who make eco art today.
The failed magic tricks in Lyndon Barrois Jr.’s canvases would hang in the final scene of Chinese Roulette in which everyone turns against everyone.
The exhibition is a private memorial for Etel Adnan accessible only to members of the art world’s inner circle. And that’s a pity.
It’s stressful enough to fuck in the forest for fear of passers-by or the police; imagine having to also look out for curators.
Even though the show brings together a few unusual tricks, they are disjointed and leave little for the eye to linger on.
I didn’t get to see this show. Perhaps for the best.
Meisenberg’s paintings are either the product of a conspiracy or documents of a conspiracy theory.
The party slumps into a half-voiced political complaint and never recovers. This is what happens when instead of living culture, we ‘celebrate’ it.
In Fleury’s car workshop cum womenswear boutique, everything is ready-made and ready-to-wear. But you can’t touch any of it and you certainly can’t afford it.
Tilson’s styled self-portraits are an affectation that will take many years of practice to pay off.
The exhibition feels like a lecture on climate change sponsored by the designers of The Line, Saudi Arabia’s dystopian plan for a 110-mile linear city in the desert.
There’s a group, but they’re as indistinct as the faces of Jesus that regularly appear to people on slices of toast.
Looking at Xie’s portraits is a little like wearing a virtual reality headset over only one eye.
There’s little for the eye to hang on and none of the punk culture of Relph’s earlier practice emerges from the works.
A twee aesthetics native to a grandmother’s mantlepiece collection of tourist souvenirs and devotional figurines.
These images are perfectly charming even to a viewer possessed of a cold anthropological eye. The troubling part is in realising just how far ‘outside’ the ideas are.
For the abundance of material, there simply aren’t enough ideas in the exhibition to go around these Mayfair interiors.