Sometimes Fudge seems to be searching for hidden sweet spots in the harmonics of recognition.
February 17 to March 27 511 W 25TH Street, Second Floor New York City, 212 989 0156 Clouds and shrubbery, water and air have long been insinuating themselves into Louise Belcourt’s lusciously brushed color fields that otherwise can seem bequeathed from Friedl Dzubas or Helen Frankenthaler. Belcourt raises the stakes of this mingling of painting…
Stylistic textures are revealed to be unselfconscious tics without which Steffen cannot construct flesh.
Taaffe’s pure decorativeness nevertheless embraces, almost as fetish, the visible husks of signs.
By all rights these life-and-death-size duels in the sun between bullfighters and bulls should be awful, stripped of the mystery and mediation that until now had been the artist’s stock-in-trade.
Green’s current paintings supplant his earlier “limited animation” mock-mayhem with the saturated glazes and rendered anatomies of a Golden Age chipmunk fable.
Paine manages to steer these leafless “Dendroids,” as he calls them, between the Scylla of transparency and the Charibdis of mechanization.
The problem with late Picasso has to do with his stubborn insistence on diaristic expressionism increasingly isolated from changing times.
In Julian Schnabel’s film Basquiat, the title character, exemplar of the flameout credo of the East Village, is assisting an artist-installer at the Mary Boone Gallery. This mediocrity, played by Willem Da Foe, attempts to counsel the hero about the benefits of a reliable day job. Basquiat replies that someday he would show on those very…
At first the eye is fooled – one thinks one is looking at silvery photographs of sublime cloudscapes shot from an airplane above an uninhabited wilderness. Closer examination reveals the patient, expert mark of the hand, as well as an improvisatory richness of imagination that, while consistently illusionistic, is decidedly otherworldly.