Artists on Artists
Home of the Bill T. Jones / Arnie Zane Company
Like his older compatriot Mark Leckey, Atkins deftly utilizes syncopated montages of sounds and filmic images to create disturbing and disorienting virtual realities.
When I look at Jordan Kantor’s visual art, I think of poems.
The encounter between two different types of records and two different experiences—the diagram and the snapshot—is everywhere visible in and crucial to Dalal’s work.
Concerned primarily with Puerto Rico and the Caribbean, where she lives and works, her works defy categorization or any simple read. Rather, they are rich entanglements of place, history, and time.
Hovsepian addresses current matters in her work, but she does so in a vocabulary that moves beyond binaries and beyond Western mentality, one that follows a different way of thinking and feeling.
With charmingly deadpan humor, Aki Sasamoto’s performances and installations tease out just how small human existence is; despite our more evolved intellect, advanced motor skills, and ability to read and appreciate Proust, we’re all basically rats at heart, just with the added bonus of self-reflection and a love for rosé.
Ellen Cantor (1961–2013) was a prolific artist with an ardent vision that was personal, communal, and political. In the years before her untimely death, she had produced a complex body of work spanning painting, sculpture, drawing, and especially film and video. Her work—an open expression of her own sexuality—faced censorship battles in both the UK and Switzerland in the 1990s.
In Killer of Sheep, Charles Burnett’s 1977 film set in LA after the Watts riots, there is a scene you may recall: a group of friends sit in a car outside a liquor store; on the hood rests a can of beer, and the man in the passenger seat reaches through the empty windshield to sip from it.
While the art-world pendulum predictably swings back and forth between a taste for abstraction and an embrace of figuration, some artists remain steadfast in their pursuits. Such is the case with James Esber, whose work has long sought to merge these seemingly opposed tendencies.
Everywhere you look in the first room, there are little directives, tucked into the art, to text various numbers for answers. I did as bidden, but because I was listening to Fiona Apple’s “I Know” on repeat too loudly over my headphones, I couldn’t hear the answers, which emanated God-like from the walls, and so I only have this one-sided record for you, dear reader.
Audra Wolowiec explores the materiality of language via text, sound, sculpture, and collaborative projects. Her recent solo exhibition at Studio 10, entitled ( ), presented both the immateriality and materiality of her subject matter as subtle and poetic experiences.
Mold-making and photography have an ambiguous relationship to whatever they reproduce. They can deliver the most faithful rendition of a given model, but it is precisely this similarity that makes them extraordinary, unreal.
Of the various collected objects in Cameron Rowland’s studio—a fluorescent orange work coat, a bundle of street-sweeper bristles, several pot-medal badges—the most abundant are books.
It starts, of course, with water. A bath for the newborn, a baptism for the blank canvas.
David Brody has discovered a way to improvise abstraction with the help of math, producing exaggerated perspectives that make you feel the excitement of flying. The flight path might be up or down—depending on where you look—over familiar yet impossible imaginary places.
When I walked through the doors of the Hionas Gallery to see Rebecca Smith’s exhibition, there was one white wall piece that seemed to hover in front of a white wall. It was nothing if not quietly but palpably breathtaking. It made the room feel complete; it beckoned me closer… and thrillingly, there was nothing to say!
In 1943, at the age of twenty, Frederick Terna knew that if he survived the war he was going to be a painter.
After Hurricane Katrina, Brandan “Bmike” Odums realized that the graffiti he and other artists were making in the abandoned buildings around New Orleans had an inherent political value, not just because of the subject matter (though Odums himself had always had an affinity for depicting civil-rights icons) but also because creating art in those depopulated spaces foregrounded their meaning, calling attention to what they had once been, what they had been allowed to become, and why.
As Anna K.E. explains it, first a picture comes to her, then she completes the action.