It is too late to save the regime, yet too early to mourn it.
Gillick’s practice lacks obviously consistent character, save for it is sparseness of means and the ungraspability of its referents.
Faced with so little, one longs for an even emptier room.
Hot metal is that, like water, it spills away from the mould.
The challenge of curating a retrospective of a career as rich as Kelley’s is to build a narrative that both lay audiences and art historians can believe. Wood packs the show and pleases neither fully. It’s remarkable that any artist’s art school experiments would find home in the museum. Kelley’s 1970s high conceptualism does set…
No narrative emerges from the tonnes of steel and plastic his work consumed
How does a curator tell an unfamiliar history yet evade the museum’ didacticism and the audience’s dulled expectations? Jhaveri’s ambitious review of India’s testing decades at the end of the 20th century could easily have been a torturous sermon: the period’s Wikipedia entry is full of social tension, abuses of power, even civil unrest. The…
Lack of care for the artefact is a strange USP for a gallery.
It’s too early for a funeral, yet there’s no other reprieve in this commodity cult.
This tech-optimism might have entertained gallery-goers twenty years ago.
Rhis show is the kompromat in an art generation’s archive.
With the right lighting, this story could be a mid-century colonial classic.
The illusion is as good as complete.
Each show lasts no more than three hours, and it’s bring-your-own booze.
These sculptures are too clean, too ordered, and too clever for no good reason.
When truth and artifice are so bluntly opposed, what use is aesthetics?
Such kitsch might have been fine in a spinster auntie’s bedroom. In the gallery, it is a cruel trick.
Büchel’s work exposes that the endgame of mainstream artistic political sentiment is pure spectacle.
Secondary turns the gallery into an American Football stadium. But all the seats in the house are the cheap seats and the game lacks a cheerleader.
This project outs Rauschenberg as a propagandist if not an outright Fed.
This dissonance might be intentional. If it isn’t, so much for the better.
Denić took the Biennale’s theme literally, as though he was not in on the art world joke.
One of the novelties in Venice is the artwork that looks good but on reflection isn’t.
Ababri’s paintings for the Grindr generation are more cartoonish than they are from life.
It’s Sunday in the village. And the main square is deserted.
This Elysium is part panel house block, half Roman ruin
This closed circulation project speaks to and agrees with only itself.
Ntjam’s Biennale presentation has all the hallmarks of world-building ambition. For one, it boasts two separate locations, one dedicated solely to the work’s public programme. The main feature is housed in a giant purpose-made structure which occupies a third of an exceptionally spacious courtyard. The shiny blue surface of this installation plays here the part…
The giraffe’s taxidermied corpse is host to an ideological stunt.
Whatever the purpose of this confusion, it’s not to be found in the gallery.
The exhibition’s user experience rivals that of the Apple Store.
This fishbowl universe is easy sea comfort but ultimately no sushi.
An interest in material is core to this practice but Middleton mistrusts his instincts.
This embarrassing display indicts today’s second-fiddlers with narcissism and egomania.
Ring 1 for “Grief”, and it’s flat 7 for “Garbage”.
Aesthetic cognition or crossword puzzles only rarely bring such perverse pleasure.
These works could bear witness to the birth of a star or the heat death of the universe. The curators don’t know which.
This project lands in the joke section of Animal Farm and not as a prophecy of the Jan 6th insurrection.
In DiMattio’s giant ceramics kiln, everyday motifs like sneakers and knickers clash into the ornate Rococo stove and the Victorian China snuff box.
This show would be better without the baggage of the artist’s personal story and even better without the Twin Towers altogether.
The whole thing feels like a remake of Wind in the Willows directed by a garden gnome.
There’s an unfortunate ‘emerging artist’ vibe to this handful of readymade sculptures.
Having forgotten what the ‘dramatic’ in art stands for, visual artists today too often mistake hacked theory for stage directions.
Meaning parts with the image in this exhibition, never to return. Post-structuralism triumphs.
Too many deadpan landscape photographs turn intrigue into fatigue and into paralysis.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
For the abundance of material, there simply aren’t enough ideas in the exhibition to go around these Mayfair interiors.
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