Local-art-centre retro exposes the breakdown of the feminist art project.
Gillick’s practice lacks obviously consistent character, save for it is sparseness of means and the ungraspability of its referents.
Kar’s insight a fly’s life – or, to have it his way, the whole universe – is fleeting.
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…
Ask DALL-E to paint an abstraction and it’ll confidently produce a museum-worthy clone
Lack of care for the artefact is a strange USP for a gallery.
The Mavericks wanted a weapon, Igwe leaves them a toy.
When an artist thinks he’s understood quantum mechanics, he doesn’t. How will he know if he knows god?
This tech-optimism might have entertained gallery-goers twenty years ago.
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.
Nan Goldin’s oeuvre is a testament to the power of art over an artist in the service of addictive images.
This project outs Rauschenberg as a propagandist if not an outright Fed.
The garish colours which may have carried the story in cinema here are unfitting of their new medium.
This dissonance might be intentional. If it isn’t, so much for the better.
It’s Sunday in the village. And the main square is deserted.
This attempt at building pan-Arabic film aesthetics falls prey to the art technician’s trickery.
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 applause was rapturous. A sense of tragedy, however, was altogether missing.
Whatever the purpose of this confusion, it’s not to be found in the gallery.
With material this gratuitously explicit and a curator this absent, it’s a miracle that this project wasn’t shut down by the licencing, or indeed art-historical authorities.
The eyes may be the windows of the soul. To make an aphorism of the reverse needs more than shadow-play.
How can art improve the lives of communities? Wrong answers only.
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?
Such work was once a mere grift. Now, it is an outright stitch-up.
This project lands in the joke section of Animal Farm and not as a prophecy of the Jan 6th insurrection.
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.
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.
Idle work became indistinguishable from leisure, vegetative time-passing from family life.
The whole thing feels like a remake of Wind in the Willows directed by a garden gnome.
This exhibition combines the most vulgar of all art school tropes: juvenile narcissism, NFT kitsch, and mindless referentialism.
Little separates this display from a human zoo complete with curators who occasionally kettle-prod the once noble savage into a spectacular rage.
This exhibition is a warning to would-be propagandists: trust art at your peril.
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.
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.
The party slumps into a half-voiced political complaint and never recovers. This is what happens when instead of living culture, we ‘celebrate’ it.
There’s a group, but they’re as indistinct as the faces of Jesus that regularly appear to people on slices of toast.
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