It takes some courage to name things. Turning “retrospective” into a proper noun, Cullinan and Richards open this fragmentary account to a third-party translator. A singular narrative doesn’t emerge lightly, however. Lights, mirrors, and cryptic geometries are part of the vocabulary. The works’ elaborate titles imply that they once made up a complex grammar. Sixteen-year-old text paintings hang close to current witchy triangular abstractions. Traces of the artists’ day jobs prop up archival productions. Material arrangements break formal conventions, then break other artists’ even earlier breaches.
Read in one way, this show is the kompromat in an art generation’s archive. With less context, it takes an irreverent gallop through the establishment’s self-regarding fringes. For that reason, this review is partial. The oeuvre’s charming humour, however, is incontestable.
