By Michael Feingold
By Elizabeth Zimmer
By James Hannaham
By Christian Viveros-Faune
By Christian Viveros-Faune
By R. C. Baker
By Michael Feingold
By Michael Musto
Sometimes the art world resembles a freeway where the artists are cars. There are on ramps and off ramps; vehicles are constantly entering and exiting. Once merged they move at speeds ranging from cautious to reckless, changing lanes continuously or never. There are blowouts and breakdowns, cars that go fast and end up overheated, engines smoking or in flames, and others that simply run out of gas and drift to a standstill. (And there are various observers: local and state authorities, helicopter-borne traffic reporters, and overeager bystandersin other words, dealers, curators, critics, and collectorsbut that's another story.)
It's not always a pretty sight, but it's easier to see all these players in summer when traffic is light. At the moment, three shows offer contrasting examples of how artists enter and leave the flow.
Sometimes you're cruising, caught in your thoughts, not paying attention to the signs. When you look up, you're in the middle of nowhere. That's where the sculptor Saint Clair Cemin finds himself with the new work he's showing at Cheim & Read. Born in Brazil, Cemin, 48, arrived in New York in the early '80s, just in time to join the then-forming Neo-Geo reaction to Neo-Expressionism. Like many of his cohorts, Cemin recycled and recombined forms and styles. In his case the form was biomorphic, the style was surrealism, sprinkled with (standard-for-the-time) references to furniture. A quirky second-stringer from the start (the sculptural equivalent to George Condo, though Condo is more agile), Cemin found ways to impress. His good years were, roughly, from 1987 to 1991. Then a certain self- satisfied repetitiveness set in.
Here we see that condition in its terminal state. Except for one abstract work that looks vaguely like an angel smiting a blobby something-or-other, Cemin is lost. Simply put, this artist is too young to be making this work. He appears to be in his own personal "Greek Myth Phase." The four other marble and bronze sculptures here look as if they could have been made by someone 40 years older, 40 years ago. One features a Trojan horse pierced by a spear, another a billowing sail; one has a Giacometti-like figure staring at a mound, while the last is actually a sphinx with tits. Technically iffy, these works have no presence, nothing to do with anything other than themselves, and are at the end of the road, ideawise. Having always run beyond capacity, with a questionable blend of fuel and no stops for oil, Cemin's parts have been ground down. Diagnosis: without a serious overhaul, this vehicle will not see the open road again.
A quick merge into traffic is tempting but dangerous: when you've done it once you think you can do it again. Wade Guyton wants to travel in the fast lane. Last year Guyton (who was still a 27-year-old graduate student at the time) looked impressive in one of the better group shows of the seasona four-part exhibition at this gallery, curated by Ricci Albenda, called "Answer Yes, No, or Don't Know." Guyton filled a quarter of the gallery with a giant parquet-covered hollow rectangle. Resembling some kind of mutant wooden stage, or a lumbering Star Warscreature created by a berserk minimalist, it stood at eye level and had an exaggerated sense of space and displacement. Not only did it fill the room and your imagination in just the right proportions, it was ludicrous and provocative.
Having succeeded once with adding something to the gallery, Guyton now tries the same thing in reverse, with subtraction. Here, for his first solo show (in Andrew Kreps's pretentiously named "project space"), Guyton tries an old art move for a fast merge and nearly wraps himself around an art-historical lamppost. Removing all the contents from the back room (i.e., the art, the dealer, the office equipment) to the main gallery, Guyton hangs a couple of photographs, puts up a partition, scatters a few of his own makeshift sculptures around the vacated room, and titles the whole thing "Against the New Passeism. Understanding that this is only the beginning, hope for the end. Build, Destroy, Do Nothing."
Maybe every generation has to repeat this gesture: the "Chopsticks" of Deconstruction. Guyton may be trying to create an opening for himself, or a mental space, which is good, but this de/reinstallation ploy has been really tried and may no longer be true. There is one perk, however. In the not so accidental gallery group show he has created in the front space, Guyton seems to say, "Look, while everybody was saying this building sucked, this gallery turned into something good." And he's right. A risky move, it has a dash of altruism, so we'll only issue a warning.
Pedro Barbeito's first one-person show at Basilico has the excitement of a new arrival confidently merging into traffic, the kind you make room for by changing lanes ungrudgingly. Barbeito is 29 and graduated from Yale a few years ago. His paintings define a kind of spherical, gridded, digital cosmos. They're trippy and maniacal, seem computer-generated but are entirely handmade.
Each of the four large works here is round or ovoid and depicts either an unseen or unseeable micro- or macrocosmic event: the structure of a molecule, the mechanics of a black hole, temperature readings within a landscape, a chemical reaction. Cutaway views of cells, magnifications of atoms, or cross sections of even smaller particles are laid out on an elaborate network of radiating lines. Everything looks abstract but feels very real.
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