A sign on the front door orders you to "acknowledge that a dangerous condition exists inside" and to release the gallery from any liability. But upon entering, you are confronted only by such exquisite conundrums as a rickety chair whose four legs have been cobbled into a single stilt planted in a teacup. (Pitarch's five-foot-tall sculpture is as perfectly balanced as a stork.) Nearby lies a clothespin with its jaws forced open by the sawed-off section of one of its own wooden flanges, like a crocodile cannibalizing its own tail. A sketchbook in which the drawings have been erased, the ragged tailings compressed into a dull-gray, eraser-shaped block resting next to it, documents the simultaneous eradication and transfiguration of the artist's ideas. As you exit you might finally notice the ceiling of the entrance hall, where dozens of butcher knives, points barely embedded in the plaster, threaten to rain down... More >>>