Mindiashvili’s installations strike a teasing balance between disclosure and concealment.
The indicators that I would become an artist weren’t about drawing talent; they were about knowing I was special.
There I was, sitting in a rocking chair at the Microscope Gallery in Bushwick but I felt like I was visiting a friend in her own home and we were just sitting around bullshitting. No, it wasn’t one of those snobby holier-than-thou art shacks in Manhattan. It was Marni Kotak’s show, The Birth of Baby X and the rocking chair had belonged to the artist’s mother.