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.
Visuals of her own making overpower the artist.
The eyes may be the windows of the soul. To make an aphorism of the reverse needs more than shadow-play.
This show will sell tickets. But it won’t change the weather.
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.