If you walked into the backroom exhibition space at Pierogi you might be forgiven for thinking you had just walked into a children’s room decorated by Werner Herzog and John Waters, by which I mean it is a sordid, moody, desperate, joyous, and campy. No really.
Referencing prairie dogs and Mussolini, yesterday New Museum chief curator Richard Flood wound up his talk at the Portland Art Museum on “Creating Networks: The New Internationalism” with some bracing criticism of his own directed at online critique of his institution. Unlike the rest of his talk which very sharply traced American art world’s relationship with work by international artists 1980s to present from his vantage points at the Barbara Gladstone Gallery, Artforum, the Walker Art Center, the New Museum, his final comments were wildly out of touch with the ways we have conversations about art now.
I’m not sure exactly when I became aware of the High Line, but once you noticed it, it was hard to forget. There were giant graffiti pieces visible from street level and in the spring and summer you could see a ragged blaze of green sprouting from the otherwise lifeless tracks. I remember walking along Tenth and Eleventh Avenues — peering up at the hulking structure and wondering how I could get up there.
One of the most popular art feeds on Twitter right now doesn’t have a name or a face or a gender. It doesn’t represent an established arts institution or magazine, nor does it have any kind of credentials. And yet, less than a year since it started, it now boasts 10,000 followers.
The Xinhua News Agency is reporting that the Chinese authorities have ordered the National Museum of China to lay claim to the rest of the keyboard fearing that the acquisition of “@” by the Museum of Modern Art would lead to a flood of acquisitions by other American institutions. [SPOOF]
Ten years is a longtime for a web-based project and Newsgrist is celebrating a decade of existence this month.
I spoke with its creator Joy Garnett about her online project and how it has evolved since its inception. She assured me that, “after all these years [it] remains as close to my heart as ever.”
It was a cold, snowy and slushy night in SoHo when the Brucennial opened. People were long anticipating the Bruce High Quality Foundation’s latest project which appropriated the Whitney Museum’s branding, packed a storefront retail space on West Broadway with a truckload of art, and placed almost everything up for sale.
And as soon as it started it is now concluded … in our final installment of the complete review of The Brucennial: 229. Lola Schnabel – Generation Next; 230. Tom Fruin – Didn’t like this until I saw the stitching. All our comforts, sewn together in a skin suit; 231. Shelly Silvers – Screen koan. This is really good. Loop solid …
The reviews never stop on Hyperallergic: 176. David Carlin – Ready for the wound. Lovely, actually.; 177. Aga Olisseinov – Looks like a pagan ritual from The Wild Wild West TV show. Love.; 178. Ann Gillan – To paraphrase and twist Bryan Ferry: Just enough is never too much. I want this …
The National Academy Museum’s Annual Exhibition, often seen as the Whitney Biennial’s dowdy cousin, still privileges the rich traditions that bigger museums, galleries, and curators often overlook when they focus on younger, sexier media like video, installation, and social sculpture. This year, due to the economic downturn, the 185th NAM Annual includes less art than usual, but has continued to choose outstanding artists deeply engaged in traditional studio practice.
And the review marches on with art reviews a plenty in the seemingly impossible task of reviewing the whole Brucennial. Today’s installment reaches #175: 111. Kathe Burkhart – FUCK THE UNDERGROUND. Exactly.; 112. Dolores Haydon – The horror of porn. The porn of horror. Cool the way the scissors and cutting echo the nearby Man Bartlett piece …
I’m trying to sleep at the Whitney. I rest on a white pillow, a white bath towel covering me. On my head I wear a plastic grocery store bag, the handles tied under my chin, two rubber bands on either side of my head cinching the plastic into a pair of ears. I’m supposed to be a mouse.