Instead of thinking of Acheson’s works as paintings, I have come to think of them as battered talismans, unfinished letters, and broken odes to his heroes, many of whom are artists.
Like a Ferrari parked in a garage in Emeryville, California, for way too long, Keith Boadwee is finally taking his show on the road. A transgressive artist, probably known best for his homoerotic yet humorous photographic self-portraits, Boadwee faded into relative obscurity after some early success in 1990s Los Angeles. But this year his work is reaching new audiences.
In her glowing review of Guy Goodwin’s previous exhibition at Brennan & Griffin, which appeared in the New York Times on March 8, 2012, Roberta Smith suggested that Goodwin belonged to the “tradition of raucous American abstraction,” which began with “Stuart Davis and George Sugarman.”