The circus is in town, its acts are the infrastructure of contentment.
This tech-optimism might have entertained gallery-goers twenty years ago.
Rhis show is the kompromat in an art generation’s archive.
The commercial imperative is understandable. The art historical intent, less clear.
As the plaster in Margolles’ sculpture dissolves into a dirty mess, her monument will be neither beautiful, nor true. It will, however, be gruesome.
The works are older than the artist’s last good idea.
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?
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 project has no room for breath and even less for context.
These ideas can’t last beyond the pop-up show’s closing date.
One of the novelties in Venice is the artwork that looks good but on reflection isn’t.
Art history can catch modernity in splitting from the past and thus from itself.
The giraffe’s taxidermied corpse is host to an ideological stunt.
An interest in material is core to this practice but Middleton mistrusts his instincts.
Death by debris falling from building façades is an artist’s occupational hazard.
What good it is to be best in show when the competition is lame, crooked, or outright fake?
There will be no women when this spell breaks. And no need for magic, either.
In the age of the decolonial, this is as quaint as it is outmoded
Who could have thought that these mantras would turn into rote?
What’s left of the show are stage props that feed adolescent imaginations with false memories of the long-finished party.
Such ‘80s nostalgia for meaning before history’s end is a comfort blanket.
These works are as garish as they are fun to look at.
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.
A police procedural turns into a drinking game of Foucauldian power analysis.
It should be within the resources of Pace and Olowska’s experience to advance her legend beyond the discretely marketable.
Who opens a space in Fitzrovia only to fill it with such drivel?
This is a poor man’s version of history or a philistine collector’s absolution.
All this tries to be macabre and surreal like in Bosch or Miyazaki but is instead laughably twee.
This exhibitions is trying to explain the concept of ‘crazy paving’ to a blind man. It’s impossible to tell where a work ends and the wall begins.
The reward for taking part in this experiment of life is ascension to the holy orders.
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.
Rot overpowered this subject and came for the object next.
Less is more, as the saying goes. Nagle’s porcelain and resin maquettes are the bare minimum.
The artist must choose which ground is best ceded.
Meaning parts with the image in this exhibition, never to return. Post-structuralism triumphs.
Mad Max meets Waterworld in a crossover sequel conceived by a film studio’s marketing department.
There’s a Bosch hellscape dedicated to Trump and a whole “basket of deplorables” polishing their guns in a prepper cell.
Too many deadpan landscape photographs turn intrigue into fatigue and into paralysis.
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.
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.
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.
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