By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By Jennifer Krasinski
By Jennifer Krasinski
By James Hannaham
By Tom Sellar
From time to time the New York art world experiences what I call a harmonic convergencea day or week when a large cluster of exhibitions open. But convergences aren't just about numbers. Something else has to happen. A frisson of anticipation, emotional sharpness, euphoria, or confusion has to be in the airthe feeling that things have momentarily slipped into or out of focus, that one is on the cusp of change, whether good, bad, intimated, or undeniable.
By my measure one such convergence culminated two Saturdays ago, on January 11, when more than 60 new gallery shows opened within 48 hours of one another. These shows, plus 25 others that opened in the previous few days, made it feel like the art world was exploding, and it felt good.
It's been a while since this feeling prevailed. Not only did this season begin with a convergence of the disharmonic kind, in a series of exhibitions that climaxed in back-to-back black holes on 24th Street (Gary Hill at Barbara Gladstone, Sam Taylor-Wood at Matthew Marks, and Julia Scher at Andrea Rosen), but for two years people have been grousing that the art world was running out of steam, and were waiting for the ax to fall. But it hasn't. In fact, despite threats of war, financial anxiety, and chronic aesthetic ennui, things have speeded up; more galleries are showing more artists than ever before. The art world has grown so big that it may no longer be able to fall apart in the dramatic way it did in the early 1990s. That collapse was large, visible, and cathartic. The art world was left to put its house in orderand it did. Now, just when you'd think things would slow down, the engine is revving faster. Temporary or not, this is causing things to ferment.
On January 11 the weather was cold but the galleries were packed. A lot of information, both new and old, seemed in play and even up for grabsinformation that if looked at in a certain way suggests a subtle change may be in the offing, that there's more room to move and less to lose. This convergence of openings vividly illustrates that careers come in all shapes and sizes, that art is about the long haul not the overnight, and that always hungering for the Next Big Thing often means missing what's right under your nose.
That day a generational balance seemed to have been momentarily struck. There were artists of all ages in different stages of their careers. Lesser-known, more mature ones, like Dona Nelson, Mel Kendrick, Perry Hoberman, and David Scher (whose show at Leo Koenig is a dark horse) all looked particularly good, and a famous one, David Salle, whose return to Boone finds him stuck in a rut, is still engaged in a mostly tedious if dissociated dialogue with Alex Katz. There were known but somewhat neglected artists like Tacita Dean, turning up the heat of her art; local heroes like Kevin Landers, who is doing what he's always done better than ever; and Tim Gardner, who's either trapped in a holding pattern or simply losing ground. Wherever he is, it's unclear what Gardner's ambitions are, whether he's simply trying to improve his technique, which only brings him closer to academicism, or if he's thinking of going deeper into his subject, which he hasn't really done since his first show.
Only 11 days into the new year, I spotted 10 works already dated 2003, including one by perennial slowpoke Janine Antoni. In the downtown Gagosian office, I beheld the most shocking thing I saw all day: Damien Hirst's huge, black-and-bluish monochrome made entirely of dead flies. This painting, titled Armageddon, is a perfect metaphor for the fears of the present moment and a reminder that when Hirst is not mythologizing himself he's capable of remarkable things.
At Sonnabend, a group of previously unseen pictures by the German photographers Bernd and Hilla Becher depict industrial views that (compared with their famous, focused architectural studies) are practically panoramic. Uptown, Agnes Martin at the age of 91 has made what for her is a major leap, painting layers of vaporous color in vertical bands. At Shainman, Malick Sidibé's pictures are intoxicating, and at Sikkema, Shahzia Sikander is breathing new life into her quixotic drawings by animating them, although this device could turn into a gimmick.
There were satisfying surveys of Jan Dibbets, Keith Haring, and early Raymond Pettibon at Gladstone, Deitch, and Zwirner & Wirth respectively, and promising debuts, notably Christopher Minor's painful/poignant videos at Bellwether and Orly Genger's obsessive yarn pieces at Stux. At Kreps, Daniel Bozhkov's "Learning How to Fly Over a Very Large Larry," about his crop-circle earthwork of creepy Larry King, was the squirrelliest thing I've seen in some time. The paintings of Faris McReynolds at Marvelliare conventional but an OK start, while Matthew Northridge, who exhibited a cool-looking city-grid sculpture at the New Museum last summer, presented a series of too-tight, Tom Friedman-ish works at Gorney Bravin & Lee.
In addition to commendable exhibitions in established galleries, a number of new spaces opened by former gallery directors are spicing things up. Michelle Maccarone, the energetic ex-director of Luhring Augustine, whose two-floor gallery in Chinatown is one of the livelier spaces in town, is currently showing the wickedly strange drawings and videos of Californian Anthony Burdin. John Connelly, formerly of Rosen, has a joyful, all-over-the-place exhibition curated by Scott Hug, the editor of K48 magazine, and titled "Teenage RebelThe Bedroom Show." A few blocks away, Daniel Reich, the former director of Pat Hearn, who has been staging excellent exhibitions out of his teensy West 21st Street ground-floor apartment for over a year, is showing an installation by Christian Holstad, consisting of a walk-in, plastic-draped bedroom decorated with torrid, meticulously crafted drawings and collages. In the back room of LFL Gallery (a little space trying to make it big on the super-block of West 24th Street), and echoing some of the craft and sex of Holstad's work, are the drawings of Tim Lokiec, a young artist who also has work in a noteworthy group show at the ATM Gallery on Avenue B (run by an artist who leases ATM machines for a living).