While I have seen Goodman’s self-portraits numerous times, the unlikely combination of raw pathos and tenderness always stops me in my tracks.
As invested as Louis Fratino is in his gay subject matter, what heightens the work is his formal mastery of the figure in space.
Between 1994 and 2011, Goodman painted a series of self-portraits that constitute one of the most powerful and disturbing achievements of portraiture in modern art.
Marlene McCarty’s Murder Girls series does not give us the satisfaction of a neatly wrapped moral or a happy ending, nor does the artist attempt to rationalize the girls’ actions or to vilify them.
Lawson confronts viewers with multifaceted visions of black identity, as embodied by strangers and neighbors alike, with whom she has established an intense rapport.
From an increasingly diversified roster of galleries to a surprising slew of rock art, the mega-fair is impressively eclectic this year.
Other than their use of a camera, these photographers appear to have little in common, which I think is a good thing.
This list barely scratches the surface of the city’s artistic offerings this year, from overdue retrospectives to surprising sides of artists we know well.
Five artist friends have curated a memorial exhibition of works by Tony Feher, who died in June at age 60, highlighting two unfinished bodies of work he was developing at the time of his death.
In an era that celebrates celebrity, vulgar loudmouths, puerile provocateurs, selfie-addicts, and excessive materialists, Merlin James prefers subtlety over din, less rather than more.
Isn’t it time we begin putting things in perspective?
Josephine Halvorson and I met on a late winter day when the chill was starting to melt, and talked over omelettes at the window of the Red Cat in Chelsea. It was early on a weekday, the restaurant felt quietly elegant, the light outdoors mellowed by cloud cover. As Halvorson noted, even the potatoes in our omelettes were perfectly soft.