In his essay “Why I Hate Post-Internet Art” Brian Droitcour complains that “the post-internet art object looks good online in the way that laundry detergent looks good in a commercial.” He bemoans the art object that looks like it has leapt off the screen into the gallery to pose for its photo before being disseminated online. His criticism is that such objects are too aware of the gallery system, playing to the capitalist brand mentality of the art world—the image/ob... [more]
By way of introduction, Cameron Crone's first solo-show at Jancar Jones, Reflow the Logic Board, is a testament to just how strange and surprising photography can get. The artist presents color photographs of to-scale beach towels, their terrycloth weaves intervened with kitty litter dripped-sand-castle-y patterns, all laid out on some mysterious concrete ground. Crone has also fabricated a series of urban-aqueduct-cum-skate-ramp sculptures, with terrazzo beveled curves and arcs. The work is very... [more]
What literature is to words and music is to sound, dance is to movement. Refined into a language—from the cosmic shimmy to the mash-potato, Viennese waltzing to a raver’s speaker humping, and of course, that formal staging from ballet to music videos we call simply Dance—we take movement and communicate joy or boredom, despair or titillation, or if good, all of the above.
Seeing the LA Dance Project last weekend at the Ace in Los Angeles, it was hard not to find the whole affair intensely beautiful. Stylized as hell, drawi... [more]
Have you ever fallen in love?
Her face is open, unselfconscious, laughing. Framed by wash of blonde hair, the light sheen of sweat settles on her skin and both eyes beam, full of trust and free of tension. Here is unalloyed happiness on the face of a full-grown woman, a joy one rarely sees in adults. Of course, she’s looking at her love, the man holding the camera.
As a love-story between this couple unfolds in scattered pictures, videos, and poems read aloud (each word a thud, but so c... [more]
Legendary performance artist Marina Abromovic announced today her next public workshop aimed at helping others push beyond their own physical and psychological limits of sitting really still for a really long time while doing something really boring.
In partnership with the Italian furniture maker Moroso, the Marina Abromovic Institute (MAI) will present "Counting the Rice" at this year's Art Basel Miami in December. Participants will try to sit these scary-looking modernist torture tables design... [more]
"This is a story of a native girl being saved by the white man. Flown to the UK, the Western world can feel good about itself as they save the native woman from the savage men of her home nation. It is a historic racist narrative that has been institutionalized."
– Assed Baig, quoted in Middle East Revisited
Reception to Malala Yousafzai’s selection as a Nobel Peace Prize winner (shared with Kailash Satyarthi) earlier this month was met with mixed sentiments: from contemptuousness to confidence, a... [more]
A copper pyramid skeleton on a white square contains a mirrored firepit with a purple flame. The subtle elements of Kathryn Garcia's sculpture in the courtyard of the newly opened Harmony Murphy Gallery downtown uses subtle, elementary materials to craft a metaphysical gathering place, borrowing aesthetically from the basic materials of minimalism with a presence drawn from the ethereal end of conceptualism. Dave Hickey wrote in his beautiful essay "Detroit Dharma Diva" in a Michael Werner catalog... [more]
This is just for you.
If every outfit you owned were cut to your body, every shoe shaped just for your foot, all the doorways in the house adjusted perfectly for your height.
If in the fridge, your favorites things to eat filled the shelves, rare culinary delights and hearty comfort foods, prepared especial, ready to be placed directly into your mouth to let their deliciousness spread through your being and satisfy all possible hungers. You could never decide which was your favorite ice cream,... [more]
The long stretch of Santa Monica where I once-upon-a-time commuted from a humble craftsman with more roommates than there were rooms to a chi-chi boutique where the diamonds in my charge were given more room to breathe than my fellow tuna-canned bus passengers pressed together in mutually unsatisfactory intimacy. The mood, demeanor, and politics of any given day were, to an extent, influenced by the mode of transportation that morning: bus, bike, lurchy pre-owned vehicle about the same age as m... [more]
Los Angeles: No longer lonely (but maybe still a bit brutal)
LA Editor Andrew Berardini with the run down of September openings across town
The long languor of summer never truly fades in Los Angeles, but the heat simmers down just enough for the long sunsets to subside into cool nights, when prodigal travelers hurry home from sunstroked beaches and slaving artists vernissage across the city. Autumnal LA, though it certainly colors, hardly chills. Art exhibitions thickly dapple acr... [more]
The long languor of summer never truly fades in Los Angeles, but the heat simmers down just enough for the long sunsets to subside into cool nights, when prodigal travelers hurry home from sunstroked beaches and slaving artists vernissage across the city. Autumnal LA, though it certainly colors, hardly chills. Art exhibitions thickly dapple across this considerable town: Giuseppe Penone at Gagosian and Sam Falls at Hannah Hoffman on the 5th. On the 6th, Culver City unbolts with Ryan Mosley and Edgar Arcenaux at Susanne Vielmetter, Fay Ra... [more]
In a Marsden Hartley painting beats the dark heart of the twentieth century. The thin slice of globe-trotting work from 1913-1915 presaged some of the most ecstatic and iconic tropes to come.
In a Marsden Hartley painting is the synthetic seed of Pollock’s urgency and John’s cool, detached symbology. Both men seemed to filch from Hartley’s rainbow palette, alternately whipped into creamy pastels or shot through with matte, inky blacks.
The brief period straddling the outbreak of World Wa... [more]
The Myth of Solid Ground by Chelsea Rector Sarah Conaway, Kim Fisher, Pearl C. Hsiung, Shana Lutker, Florian Morlat, Jon Pestoni, Mungo Thomson, Mary Weatherford at The Pit: Exhibitions & Editions
July 13th - August 24th
Right now, my favorite London-based fashion blogger, Susie Bubble, is on holiday in Santa Monica. “Is it Blackpool? Great Yarmouth? No it's Santa Monica,” she writes.
Right now, my best friend’s plane takes off from Burbank’s Bob Hope Airport en route to Poland by way of Israel.
Right now, Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” repeats in my ear buds.
Right now, I’m writing from a balcony overlooking a rocky jetty in the Pacific Ocean where on July... [more]
Art is what makes life more interesting than art.
Sometime last fall, in a moment beyond reason, I took a two-hour bus ride to pick up a pair of $89 shoes that were then on sale for $14.99 at a Zara near the Santa Monica Pier. The bus ride was my penance for the deal, an enactment of the masochistic conflation of time with money. I read Chris Kraus' Where Art Belongs on the 704 as it lurched the long stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard, jotting crooked notes along the... [more]
Nostalgia and Gratitude, Brokenness and Redemption by Ed Schad Henry Diltz, Walden S. Fabry, Henry Horenstein, Les Leverett, David McClister, Raeanne Rubenstein, Ethan Russell, Leigh Wiener, Elmer Williams, Michael Wilson at Annenberg Space for Photography
May 31st - September 28th
I only need one song to explain how I feel about country music: George Strait’s So Much Like My Dad. A modest hit in 1992, the tune’s not nearly as recognizable as Strait’s other classics. You’ll likely run into All My Exes Live in Texas, but probably not So Much Like My Dad.
A few keys of the piano walk you into the song’s weather: the first few drops of an icy rain, a first snowfall. A brush hits the drumhead and somehow it’s cold. It hits a few more times a... [more]
Surely black, but so lively one cannot catch its true hue. Volcanic glass cooled too fast to crystalize, scientists never can quite call it a mineral or capture its color too closely. Depending on the angle of shimmer however, approximates exist.
Named by Pliny the Elder as Obsius Lapsis, after a dubious claim that it was discovered by a Greek of that name, the gem gained its "d" from a printer’s error. The Aztecs called obsidian itzli, a force that found form in the macahuitl.
A wood sw... [more]