notes and notices are short and curt reviews of exhibitions at (mostly) London galleries.
Marisa Krangwiwat Holmes, Shamiran Istifan, Tasneem SarkezSaccharine Symbols★★★☆☆Rose Easton, LondonOn until 20 December 2023Meaning parts with the image in this exhibition, never to return. Two paintings by Sarkez overlay banal messages (“11:11” and “good morning” in Arabic) on unremarkable street scenes from the Gulf states. Istifan mixes all manner of iconographies – Playboy bunnies, Baroque cherubs, and Wingdings the font – in all manner of media. Kringwiwat Holmes collages vintage mail-order catalogues with photographs and doodles. Post-structuralism triumphs.
All this is intriguing but ultimately impossible to parse because these artists, working in separation, each stage their own assaults on the same symbols and the display does not reveal the rules. What should have been a sinister game of chess – Sarkez provides a board – is instead a frustrating circular reference.
This exhibition combines the most vulgar of all art school tropes: juvenile narcissism, NFT kitsch, and mindless referentialism. In five video still portraits, Sin takes the place of art history’s celebrated subjects including Caravaggio’s Narcissus and Man Ray’s Kiki. The characters, distinguished more by their plastic wigs and colourful make-up than their presence, project sombre pensiveness.
But their demand for attention is tiresome because these drag figures are all artifice. Sin, dressed up as Frida Kahlo or Mona Lisa is only formally distinct from the TikTok girls who digitally adorn their faces for likes. In this pictorial metaverse where substance is exchanged for crypto, there is no time for the human and no space for art.
Max Hooper SchneiderTwilight at the Earth’s Crust★★☆☆☆Maureen Paley, LondonOn until 17 December 2023Mad Max meets Waterworld in a crossover sequel conceived by a film studio’s marketing department. Hooper Schneider’s dioramas are scenes of bleak undersea struggle. What is left of human civilisation – an old master painting and a bad ‘80s sitcom – persists only at the mercy of nature that’s out of control. Sea creatures have evolved into hybrids which the artist bestows with intelligence and purpose. The ocean floor looks like the Garden of Eden, but this environment is hostile, and all humans are banished. The capsules that once saved life have turned into museums.
The end is nigh, it always is. But Hooper Schneider makes it difficult to take this story seriously, despite his scientific and research credentials. The spectre of SpongeBob SquarePants hangs over this apocalypse. If this is intentional, it isn’t funny. If not, as with much eco-art today, tiresome.
In this latest series of costume dramas, Bronstein comes to the dinner table. As is typical of his elaborate acrylics, the sights are as ornate as they are comical. In lavish, gilded frames, he falls into the late evening stupor of the cheese trolley, the oyster tray, and… the Mars bar.
Some of these scenes are out of the Fawlty Towers buffet, others belong to Last Year in Marienbad. A couple more that complete this cycle of conspicuous production and consumption show cooks stuck on the set of Metropolis. It’s all as hilarious, as camp, and as inoffensive as ever. Except that we have seen it before, albeit not quite in this order.
How does one assess the mid-career production of an artist who found success in a simple, well-executed idea in his twenties and has hardly allowed it to evolve since? Bronstein, and Herald St’s programme generally, are symptomatic of the natural midlife crisis of mid-range art born out of pre-2008 opulence. Their refusal to change with the wind is likely a virtue. But as the market for Bronstein’s antics ages, so will his tricks. To live out one’s forties in a Regency K-hole would be unbecoming.
Ksenia PedanRevision★★★★☆Cell Project Space, LondonCurated by Adomas NarkevičiusOn until 19 November 2023Pedan’s paintings would rather be anything but. Their surfaces, rendered on board that looks as if attacked with an angle grinder, betray little. They hang above eye level, as though to discourage close inspection. The gallery, likewise, isn’t like a gallery. Lengths of electrical cabling cross the walls without reason. Crude boxing conceals the radiators and budget light fittings shine directly into the visitors’ eyes.
But a false wall that oddly covers an altar on which a bird abandoned its nest reveals that all this is a shoddy cover-up, a botched renovation in which the builders cut corners before rushing off to their next job. Everything’s a little sub-standard in that way one begrudgingly gets used to but can never truly overlook.
Even the paintings use the pseudo-neutral palette and form of a mid-range interior design catalogue that rejects lasting meaning. But their marks slowly become discernible: a dense forest, a pile of bones, an hourglass turning dust to dust. In this eerie environment, they demand reverence and reward it with stories of death and disaster that resist any rushed renewal.
Does self-obsession make a diva or is it the product of her fame? It would be unfair to appraise this line-up of arias from Verdi, Bizet, and Puccini sung by seven sopranos as an operatic production because their perfectly competent renderings are mere footnotes to Abramović’s narcissism who is the work’s only protagonist. Thankfully, this prima donna doesn’t sing but her body constantly dominates the stage in giant projections that humiliate Tosca and Carmen as if their deaths were nothing compared to Marina’s.
When the heroine speaks, she spouts nonsensical last words which confirm that cynical grand delusion has been the Abramović method for decades. This has none of the charm of Norma Desmond, none of the heartbreak of Norma Jane Baker, and none of the dramatic charge of Bellini’s Norma, either.
Not content with her stardom – and this production is a testament to the unchanging nature of showbusiness – Abramović wants to destroy all performance and all women until she holds the monopoly over stage death. But this abuse is only for vanity because Marina trades any pretence for the crowd’s mindless cheer. And it’s on us that we prefer a train crash over a fall from grace.
Karrabing Film CollectiveNight Fishing with Ancestors★☆☆☆☆Goldsmiths CCA, LondonOn until 14 January 2024Karrabing seems like a model grassroots political art project until one pays any attention to its content. Thirty indigenous Australians run around with cameras and retell the myths of their ancestors in a fantasy freestyle havoc. Most of the films hinge on the ‘white man’ who comes and steals or otherwise disrupts the sacred equilibrium between nature and the Emmi people. In many, the moral is that this white man should be punished, perhaps violently, and ideally by the Emmi. Reactionary calls for a race war are as near as explicit.
But one has to study the film credits to understand that all this is not a spontaneous uprising. Except for the stories – and mind that every culture has myths of external aggressors – the whole enterprise is produced and underwritten by a bunch of Australian academics. The entire project’s life in the art world thus hinges on the Emmi’s continued misery and the even more pernicious myth that they are forever the model victims of the Australian nation-state. Little separates this display from a human zoo complete with curators who occasionally kettle-prod the once noble savage into a spectacular rage.
Eisenman’s oeuvre, presented here chronologically, invites sympathy to begin with. The painter was a war artist to the subcultural and sexual shenanigans of Manhattan’s Lower East Side in the 1990s. Imagine a wall’s worth of orgiastic sketches (Viz magazine but in oil paint) and you’ll wish you’d dropped out of the same art school. A decade later, when Eisenman’s midlife crisis coincided with America’s brutal political reawakening, her interest turned to the lone figure. As she mourned the loss of youth and relationships, her cartoonish affectations gave way to Holbein, Breughel, and Bacon.
But come Tea Party time, the tables turned and Eisenman has since used her canvases to warn, not plead. There’s a Bosch hellscape dedicated to Trump, a scene with a red-hatted MAGA chud, and a whole “basket of deplorables” polishing their guns in a prepper cell. The exhibition’s finale is a reproduction (!) of a group portrait of Eisenman’s art world friends lounging in a park to protest police violence that would fascinate an anthropologist.
These works lack the universalism of Eisenman’s earlier practice. Instead of confidence, they breed paranoia. And it, in turn, casts doubt on the earlier work’s daring.
Despite the artist’s and the gallery’s best efforts, Jefferson’s paintings betray the show’s stated purpose. Already from the title (the day of George Floyd’s killing), this project wishes to reactivate the anticolonial and antiracist critique of memorials in the public realm that dominated 2020’s summer of violence and iconoclasm.
Masterful but ghostly pencil panels of public statues and edifices in New York to which the artist added evolving oil overlays of graffiti form the bulk of the show. One series tracks the removal in 2021 of Theodore Roosevelt’s horseback statue from the American Museum of Natural History. Another looks at the boarded-up façade of a Dior store and the shuttered front of a Brooklyn deli.
But because many of the subjects are also the objects of art history – in one picture, David Hammonds’ 1990 African-American Flag – Jefferson must treat them as such and they run away from him. The graffiti marks are too exuberant and luminous, and their presence confusing. But that’s only for the better because these interventions breathe a life of their own into the artefacts Jefferson would have us condemn. This exhibition is thus a warning to would-be propagandists: trust art at your peril.
In this run-of-the-mill commercial group show, the bijou paintings by Asami Shoji are as playful as they are haunting. In one, Cerberus stands at the shore of the Styx dreaming that he, too, could one day be free from his fate but nobody throws him a ball. In another, a reclining nude anxiously waits to meet her fate with a lion but Saint Jerome is nowhere in sight. There’s a scene caught in the wings of the ballet stage that could be the start of a gang rape, a death dance, or a tender embrace. The figures appear as though in x-ray and helplessly foretell their own ends.
The acute sepias, yellows, and greens rendered on gesso and clay surfaces hide ghostly narratives. Following these stories between the works of five other artists makes them even more intriguing. In one panel, a boy reaches out as if to probe Christ’s wounds. On second glance, the allegory is even richer and more confusing. On third, the tale starts over again.
Inspired in form and attitude by Manhattan Art Review.
