You wake up in a hospital. There is a doctor standing over you in scrubs, running his hand down a clipboard, a mask pulled tight across his face. There’s a vague beeping behind you and the sounds of miserable sobbing coming from somewhere. The beeping grows longer and louder until, all of a sudden, it flat-lines and your consciousness (soul? being?) rises up out of your body. “Let me tell you a secret. . .” a calm, female, British voice says from somewhere as your consciousness floats into a cosmic, hallucinogenic light show on the way to your alien afterlife.
As is JJ Brine’s way, he’s hesitant to speak about the past. Even the very recent past, when Brine– Satanic gallerist, practitioner of “Post-human” art, founder of the Vectorian and its “Crown Prince of Hell”– took off for Los Angeles to start fresh. “I don’t even know if it’s relevant to recall what happened in Los Angeles,” he said. “This is now, that was then. I’m doing what I’m doing now.”
Now that Brine has captured the attention of the art world, conservative conspiracy theorists, gossip columnists, even Dow Jones reporters, it’s much easier to track the artist’s more recent trajectory, even if he’s reluctant to go into too many details about the non-present.
You’ve heard the saying: “Don’t let people walk all over you.” If you’re a woman, this has probably been said to you especially often. But how often is it meant literally? At Kristin Smallwood’s debut solo exhibition IUD, now on view at American Medium in Bed-Stuy, the only way to access the art is by walking over scores of women (including photos of the artist herself), adhered endlessly and stickily to the gallery floor. The female figures are grinning lipstick-painted grins while your boot presses into their torso and your sweat drips onto their breasts.
A new show at Bushwick gallery Victori + Mo approaches the supernatural from a firmly grounded perspective. By exploring the ephemerality of memory and the power of belief, artist Langdon Graves walks a tricky line on the edges of the occult while still keeping a healthy dose of skepticism.
Years ago, Adam Yokell was sitting in the art library of London’s Victoria and Albert museum, applying for an LSAT course.
Maybe it wasn’t the most likely place for a future lawyer to begin his career, but then again he didn’t become just any lawyer–until recently, he was the in-house counsel for Artsy, an online platform that connects artists and galleries with collectors. And now he’s striking out on his own to follow a long-time goal, opening a small gallery called Hometown in Bushwick.
Tomorrow night you could have the chance to transform into a real live — wait for it — Instantartist!
No, this is not the new “Uber for artists” (though someone in the Bay Area is probably writing a pitch deck for that ill-fated idea right now). It is a chance to have your magnificent Instagram photos admired on a real gallery wall.
If you dare brave the cold this weekend and find yourself on Allen Street, you may come across Haruma Yanagisawa’s cultural exhibit/pop-up shop/crash pad. Photos of trendy young things smoking, drinking, having sex, and singing karaoke line the walls amidst pops of neon and pastel pink. Stepping inside is something like visiting a FIT freshman’s dorm room.
“All the drones were dead and gone by the end,” my friend laughed, filling me in on the last hour of opening night at First Person View, the Knockdown Center’s drone-centric art exhibition. The show lifted off last weekend after months of planning; unfortunately/fortunately, my friend’s account of all the mayhem I’d missed by leaving early wasn’t 100 percent accurate. “The show will go on!” Vanessa Thill, who co-curated the show, assured us. “Crashing is all part of the fun.”
A roughly hewn slab of marbled granite juts from the wall of Lower East Side gallery On Stellar Rays. Atop the granite sit two circles: one a speckled ceramic lens-like object, the other a framed photograph of a violent scene.
When I first walked in to Torus Porta, it was difficult to understand exactly what was happening. After opening a door at the bottom of a staircase, all I could see were a number of sweaty, naked bodies covered in stickiness and powder. On the floor a human-centipede-like blob of people thrashed about. I thought maybe this was an illusion or some optical trick brought on by the kaleidoscopic glow of multiple projections, but even after a few minutes of adjusting I found I couldn’t distinguish between men, women, and blow-up dolls.
For every couple of dozen unpleasant openings and closings in LES, there’s one that manages to restore our faith in the neighborhood, if only for a glorious moment. Gallery Sensei, a 2,000 sq. ft. gallery and arts event space at 278 Grand Street, is one such opening. The permanent outpost of the art project of the same name, Sensei promises exhibitions, art events and even booze! Yes, there’s a charming bar in the back of the space ideal for discussing the works on view or how much your rent has gone up this month.
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