As usual in large commercial fairs, most of what you’ll see at Frieze quickly devolves into so much product, but there is still some soul to be found amongst the gaudy baubles.
An exhibition pays tribute to the wondrous vision of a Los Angeles-based artist who died this year at the age of 37.
Pruitt unexpectedly makes draftsmanship feel relevant, even urgent.
For Wurtz, self-knowledge is not found on a psychoanalyst’s couch or a remote mountaintop, but in the things with which we surround ourselves.
Though her art shares common ground with Sol LeWitt, with whom she had a warm correspondence and even traded work, Horwitz was not granted even a fraction of his renown.
Carmen Argote’s exhibition at Commonwealth and Council suggests that she has no money left after participating in Made in LA, displaying work that resists any potential role as pricey art objects.
We have seen these men before; they are oafish and hapless, yet dangerous. They are Philip Guston’s Klansmen, back from the dead to ruin us.
Bradford’s new paintings tell us how much we don’t know.
Katherine Bradford and Jen DeNike remind me how much more there is to water in their gem-like show at AE2.
In Home Work, Ann Toebbe and Sarah McEneaney posit two different visions of middle-class domestic space.
Emily Marchand’s and Lena Wolek’s clay works at NowSpace are funny and grim, dystopian yet joyous.
What separates Ken Gonzales-Day’s exhibition Bone-Grass Boy from the mass of artwork addressing the politics of representation is its investment in intimate autobiography.