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.