Brandi Twilley’s paintings in the current exhibition, Where the Fire Started, at Sargent’s Daughters have already garnered significant praise. John Yau, for example, skillfully made the case for the honesty of the work and its lack of sentimentality. The paintings, which mainly feature the home Twilley grew up in until it burnt to the ground when she was 16, depict windows in a subtly astute manner. They function as portals in curious ways: they indicate the painter’s glimpse of spaces beyond the bleak circumstances of that house, and in seeing the significance of these spaces through Twilley’s hand, I identify with her and wish for that slim chance of escape.
In looking at “Smokey on the Yellow Chair” (2016), I’m really trying to look out of it, because the room has such a miasma of chaos that it is one of the few places my vision can settle on and not despair. Most things in sight — the walls, floors, chairs, and plywood barriers placed over two other windows — are marred with stains as if a wave of grease had arced into the house and splashed down to permeate the surfaces here and there. Aside for the bed covered with a blue tarp that appears to have protected the very young Twilley from water that leaked from the ceiling, there is a general mood of labored indifference to the entire house. Yet, in the little corner of the window that evades the tacked-up cloth imitating a curtain, the miasma lifts a little. There, I see a deeply cerulean, evening blue, that is another space, even another dimension in which things might not always founder toward destruction. I see the escape Twilley sees and I wish it for her.
The transportive properties of her windows are made more evident in “Window” (2016), where, past a plywood bar that bisects the view, lies a blue that must have been dreamed up. It’s a deeper and richer tone than what appears in the print copies from Picasso’s Blue Period that are stuck to her wall and a cabinet. So the imagined getaway is not synonymous with the transporting qualities of art. It’s something else; I’m not sure what. There’s escape here, these pictures say, if you can but reach it. A twilight window will let you through.
The settlement comes after Tate prevented an artist who exposed sexual harassment by one of its largest donors from co-curating an exhibition.
Let’s be honest: On a best bathrooms list, no one wants to be number two.
The Newark Museum of Art Presents Jazz Greats: Classic Photographs from the Bank of America Collection
Photographers Antony Armstrong Jones, Milt Hinton, Chuck Stewart, Barbara Morgan, and more capture a breadth of legendary and local musicians and performance artists. On view through August 21.
Advocacy groups are pushing for a 5% royalty in resales, which would pertain even after the artist dies, in which case the funds would go to their estate.
This week, the Getty Museum is returning ancient terracottas to Italy, parsing an antisemitic mural at Documenta, an ancient gold find in Denmark, a new puritanism, slavery in early Christianity, and much more.
Art and photographs, publications from the 19th and 20th centuries, manuscripts, posters and more are set to cross the auction block on August 18.
The absence of an explicit framing of American art, in all of its diversity, as a visual culture of empire distorts and hampers our ability to understand — and reimagine — our social world.
The gap between the material body and the psychological one, which we all too often take for granted, is one of the underlying themes of Hiro’s exhibition.
David Rios Ferreira and Denae Shanidiin join forces to bring awareness to the plight of Indigenous women and girls, and LGBTQ+ individuals.
Metrograph’s series The Process features films that were either directed by Robert M. Young or made with the help of Irving Young’s postproduction facility.
Memes depicting a sinister, all-powerful Joe Biden alter ego are sweeping the internet, and the Democratic establishment is loving it.