Thymotic

Thymotic

We currently have a best seller on our hands. Someone who says the days that were a source of melancholy for the pomos exploring a new ironic sensibility were an anomaly of history. An anomaly reaping off an economic structure undone with the cool rationalization that a return to a set of values would stem their decay – a chance for counter, tragedy for busted up polemics, barriers came down to mosh in atomic charged fields.

We are the new neutron. We don't get involved.
We are the new neutron. We don’t get involved.

Promised sunrise and some lost helicopters in a desert, a course got charted that brought one tremendous innovation to the wider world, irking those keeping track and personifying the amorphous – capital flight tilting the axis.

The unleashed vessel...
The unleashed vessel…
... once in rebellion, once in jest.
… once in rebellion, once in jest.

On Chelsea walls the cramped basement and bone littered back garden of ABCNoRio turns warehouse, the broken psyches of Wardance now cinemascope as homoerotic prole rubbings, oozing pointillist acrylics.

In that decay we rearranged.
In that decay we rearranged.

Armed American iconography. No trucks.
Armed American iconography. No trucks.
Native New Yorker moniker. To dye for.
Native New Yorker moniker. To dye for.
A Voice photographer, now based in Jersey City, counting herself lucky having spent a semester abroad in London, snapped the guests. Dutifully asking permission each time, desperate to move back to the city, when detecting an accent inquiring the heritage and pressing the case for providence, punishing the coy ones in the edit. The gallery offers the pleasure of taking Rivington to Prince – distilled mosh pit to militarized street art – arming iconography for proper measure nostalgia trippin’, packaging like fine Tetra Pak wine on boards with no trucks. The Native New Yorker moniker now sweeping such polite inquiry, germinating from formerly derided Bridge-and-Tunnel culture no longer relegated to the outer boroughs. Much talk of hipsterism invading these conclaves of Juicy. Irony is landlords are much more attuned to the long form trade winds blowing stretch limo bottle culture that distilled clubs of broken beats for the gambit of incessant speculation turned gleeful corruption.

The empty nest. Toss the money in the air!
The empty nest. Toss the money in the air!

The city is empty nest now – an exclusive destination for inhabitants of elite bubbles maintained by legions of servants back home in last third of the world conclaves. Some technoutopic apps can pick up the slack, fostering just the right amount of distance from the rabble, the taxi driver, the short order cook, the culture provider, stepping on the regulation fray of bought off inspectors and handed down medallions. No bulwark to stand in the they-ok-now-OTB repatriating capital, broken window theories as cartoonish sheen guarding the rental bubble, DNA labs in the petty art crime business, reiterating the parroted fact that there is no message, simply breach.
pixeldust

Gloria Virtutis Umbra.
Gloria Virtutis Umbra.

Overheard banter in a Chelsea elevator –

Sorry I don’t speak French.
Cuban. We’re Cuban.
Close. Related.

[ romance ]

Cuban first off the boat.
Raise finger.
First off the plane.

[ entitlement ]
pixeldust

Entitlement correction...
Entitlement correction…

You wouldn’t go back then?

[ affirmation ]

Such a shame.
Such a beautiful place.
Even if he were gone.

[ mourning ]

It’s starting again.

[ glance ]

... unsure...
… unsure…
... of what.
… of what.
pixeldust
Triumph of the Like.
Triumph of the Like.

The sack of Rome, after all, isn’t due to the churning import of a warrior class. Instead a sweet combination Moët Hennessy heart flush comeuppance and a periphery bathed by a little molecule stilling critical barbarian faculties. Meanwhile years of relentless pat downs and good will compensation represents the double rainbow triumph of Like over grit.
Superhero Crunch.
Superhero Crunch.
We ask who do we do.
We ask who do we do.
Marking this triumph, the very same day, not very far removed, managed chaos breaks out in the newly renovated rotunda. The assembled super nest crunch. We ask who do we do. We do who we did. Marvel at the bed spread. Cotton candy at the banquet. Cages for the zones of elemental chaos, now bathed in sunshine. Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.
Do who we did.
Do who we did.
Elemental forces at work.
Elemental forces at work.
Managed chaos in the rotunda.
Managed chaos in the rotunda.
Cotton candy at the banquet.
Cotton candy at the banquet.
Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.
Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.

Morbit

Morbit

The waning days of winter have a peculiar effect on the restless art stragglers who just manage to flee the stuffiness of their lofts for the kick off of open studio season. Like a support group in the bitter cold, eye spy what joe and jane have been up to cooped up during this desolate Bushwick winter.

The Bushwick open studios started with a lonesome untapped cities tweet –

“Is this controversial art exhibit by @FuchsProjects too much too soon after the murder of a Hasidic landlord?”

— Untapped Cities (@untappedcities) February 28, 2014

Too much too soon? All spite for money, all love lost.
Too much too soon? All spite for money, all love lost.

In spite of everyone’s worsening mood and depressed circumstance, the ironic shill “too much too soon” didn’t make it into the list of 150 journalist cliches –

“150 journalism cliches–if you are a writer or editor, you will laugh til you cry: http://t.co/A7ipNslFfT via @WashingtonPost

— Federated Media (@FMP) February 28, 2014

Wax...
Wax…
... skulls.
… skulls.

Passive-aggressive as a means at an end.
Passive-aggressive as a means at an end.

And so the attendees launch themselves into a morbid orbit of grizzly wax, bits of bone, uncanny juxtapositions,

Bits of bone with a hallucinatory sheen.
Bits of bone with a hallucinatory sheen.
oil paintings on strips of cardboard whose chemicals will eventually rot them off the walls.
Cardboard: the medium is the pedestal.
Cardboard: the medium is the pedestal.
They congregate on what looks to be the porch from a particularly depressing Faulkner novel and mill about cartoonsie interpretations of the Nagasaki bombing.

All neon palm dream now.
All neon palm dream now.
Dual focus out of compensation.
Dual focus out of compensation.
Fat Boy made a splash.
Fat Boy made a splash.
Insights on the cusp.
Insights on the cusp.
Can-do islands in-a-box.
Can-do islands in-a-box.

A splash of color. Fish.
A splash of color. Fish.
Whittled thumb.
Whittled thumb.

Rickety.
Rickety.
Carpets twice removed in molded form.
Carpets twice removed in molded form.

And yet, from a whittled thumb and east asian motif carpets etched in warped plywood to a set of colorful splashes even among the most morbid shapes, subtle juxtapositions do launch much needed relevance and yearning into an arts dialog largely catering to collectors and the overtly ambitious. This assembly encountered in the February dark calls attention to the tacked-on existence underpinning these rickety installations.

Pinned-on existence.
Tacked-on existence.
A bit of self-conscious morbidity can’t hurt when the week saw attempts to resuscitate a notion of blackness from the tragically hip put-to-Bed-Stuy.
One and one makes three.
One and one makes three.
Naturally for that discussion everyone came out swinging, including the landed gentri-(purely as prefix, we understand), slinging their Brooklyn growing up stories – “when I used to run around the way…” until some nasties found a way to end it with spray paint.

All cuts, no transplants.
All cuts, no transplants.

The Bishop

The Bishop

The Bed Stuy – Bushwick metroplex area is fast becoming the bike mecca for gallery hopping doted on by roving scenes of loose artist collectives. One crew kicking off the fourteen with a massive set of interventions is Brooklyn Wild. The place they selected to inflict their damage is a spot called The Bishop, like the chess piece. The spot straddles an area of Bed Stuy sporting roving Hasidics in immense furry hats in winter and massive homebrew sound systems dotting the blocks in summer.

At The Bishop Brooklyn historic looks out on current developments.
At The Bishop Brooklyn historic looks out on current developments.

The Bishop, firmly on the black side of the checkerboard, not waiting to do a move though, is run by a crew up from DC. Formerly Pratt affiliated, the space now does gentle recounting in supreme artistic effort, an approach heralding from the DC African American fine arts, especially print making, still very much non-described, non-researched as already supplanted by more rootless, more etsy manifestations.

Issues speak from the walls of The Bishop.
Issues speak from the walls of The Bishop.

Somehow I got myself in the 12 day group show on Brooklyn with a piece I’d been meaning to get back to the party from which it sprang. On the New Year for twelve, as it happened, I was chasing some tail at off-the-hook Rubulad three spaces party. I bumped into an acquaintance at the first spot who had been comped a wristband. We ripped the band in half while on the party bus and stuck it on our wrists with spittle.

Comped in Brooklyn.
Comped in Brooklyn.

Once in, I roved the second spot, like I was promoting, making snaps, but when I got back to the door knew it would be sketchy trying to go in and out with the half band spittle stuck to my wrist. In my moment of hesitancy I started to notice all the people trying to show the bouncer with their raised wrists that they were legit.

Water near amusement structure give poetic license at The Bishop.
Water near amusement structure give poetic license at The Bishop.

I started to photograph that moment tween out and in as there was a never-ending stream of people. Nine of these photographs is what I wheeled to The Bishop in the guise of Comped in Brooklyn.

Arrived a bit fashionably but didn’t feel too much out of place as this seemed more legit than the university connected pop ups dotting much of the calendar in Brooklyn now, where art is but a temporary deviance on the road to either ruin of hard drugs or the blissful arrival at settled down feeling with the two kid garage, alleviating anxiety with the, still in some sense, American dream. Above all, those spots though are placeholders for the next next wave of realtor speculation making the seeming choice above profitable.

Flood line with silt simulate.
Flood line with silt simulate.
Boobies in the zone spell grit.
Boobies in the zone spell grit.

The last spot available was on a windowsill, so once I balanced the blocks I caught sight of the piece next door where a few photographs framed and hung kept close watch on a bunch more strewn on the floor just in front.

Box truck re-ruin.
Box truck re-ruin.

This installation was by Alan Rules, and the photos were all covered in grime and looked like they were of the tragic destruction from Hurricane Sandy – if it weren’t for boobies in all the shots.

Jonnie Flatbush posting spectacles with the Glue Gun.
Jonnie Flatbush posting spectacles with the Glue Gun.

I asked the chicken egg question on how the Sandy grime had gotten on the photos clearly shot in the devastation and Mr. Rules showed me on his phone how he had ruined a box truck to get that flood line on each photo post-disaster. Next door Jonnie Flatbush whipped out a glue gun to add a final spectacle to his cartoon inspired masks. A light heart reprieve to the Sandy devastation on either side of his.

Aside of Sandy.
Aside of Sandy.

Mr. BK Wild curating the assemblage is of course renaissance man Chris Carr. Someone to watch as he brings massive outlays of fun to events simply to post rent.

Assemblage off-the-rack experience.
Assemblage off-the-rack experience.

There are few that can bootstrap art these days outside of institutional bubble. Mr. Carr can and does, showing a massive print with dozens of photos from gatherings genuinely off-the-hook. The art he assembled by simply being openly inclusive accurately linked the semblance of Brooklyn being the diverse nexus, pined for around the world, in what remains this.

Brooklyn - the diverse nexus.
Brooklyn – the diverse nexus.