The Brooklyn Rail

Charles Ray is a rare and important artist for several critical reasons, one of which is his skill at having meaningful things to say—with openness and concision—about his own sculptures. A text comprised of just a few sentences concerning each work accompanies this two-venue exhibition, with new works at Marks and exceptional works from 1988, 1990, and 1993 at Deitch. Less explanation than expansion, in it, Ray makes clear that he hopes that the two exhibitions are a “continuous body of work descending across decades […] a single mereology.” Nonetheless, these particular pieces, when considered within the entirety of his mature work (started just a few years before the earliest work on view, Pepto-Bismol in a Marble Box [1988]), are each rather remarkably complete in and of themselves. They are whole parts, but they are anything but contradictions.

Ray’s statement is effective because like his sculptures, it holds both weight and space in exacting and peculiar ways: for example, the idea of “descending across decades” is neither expected nor static but gravitational and momentous, adding a sort of turbo boost to the purring “engine” of the half-century of his enterprise. Not unexpectedly, what Ray has to say about his work (and, from what I’ve witnessed often, that of others across all of art history) speaks to the essential role of gravity in the creation and maintenance of form. And then, of course, there is also entropy…

The aforementioned Pepto-Bismol in a Marble Box can be seen as the most transitory of all the works on view in both locations, as even the steadfastness of its rather elegant marble box doesn’t completely neutralize the bodily functionality and transformation of the copious amount of the glowing pink and unappetizing medicine that comes right up to its brim. That it is “over the counter” doesn’t seem incidental, as it is the threat of overflow that enlivens its solidity.

The enlivening of solidity has remained a clear goal of much of Ray’s work ever since. Take, for example (at Marks), The Animation of Pandora (2026), a larger-than-life–sized white-painted bronze of three figures enacting the myth of the creation of the first human woman, upon whom the so-called evils of the world would be blamed. Continuing Ray’s interest in the most traditional forms of figurative sculpture, the work embodies the frozen motion we come to expect from the genre while alluding to the other consequential moment of the myth: Pandora’s—you guessed it—box.

Back at Deitch, Table (1990)—the second earliest work on view—is claimed by Ray to be among his most “complete” works. I agree, and I also think it remains one of his best. Several open containers all made of clear Plexiglass sit upon a tabletop of the same material, making it appear that it is all of one piece resting on its steel frame. I concur with Ray’s assessment that it “allows space to flow through and around it.” It participates in no movement itself, actual or implied, as it will remain in flux perpetually in the company of everything and everyone around it. If it wasn’t on view to see once again, I doubt that I would have found the connection I did with Fallen Horse (2026) at Marks. The result of nearly ten years of work, its literal grounding in a solid block of granite almost magnetically pulls it toward Table and away from Ray’s painted bronze figurative sculptures. That Ray also decided to maintain the “offsets” of the robotic carving tool gives the form an almost granular effect that for me makes a connection with all of the unseeable stuff in so called empty space. It remains my go-to association these days, but Ray’s work delivers because it is always invigoratingly entangled.

The last compare and contrast of the two installations is the most lopsided but not without its charm, largely because of the sheer perfection of Firetruck (1993). To see it inside again (my first time was at Charles Saatchi’s space before he sold it to Eli Broad) is pure delight. It remains one of Ray’s most user-friendly (in a positive way) works, something that provoked me to call my review of the 1993 Whitney Biennial, where it was parked in front of the entrance, “Never yell ‘fire’ in a crowded Whitney Biennial” (the museum was “in trouble,” and it was a key moment of effective identity politics). It just looks fantastic here, and it lends itself to being connected with the (dare I say it?) cutest work of both shows: Junk 2 (2026) isn’t the first “found” form for Ray, but his impulse to paint each component of its jumble of engine blocks (there’s that word again) a separate candy-like color brings the serious fun (Duchamp, sure, but can we say Picabia?), not unlike the Firetruck, to the table.