On October 25, 2017, I received an unexpected package in the mail, which, as I tore it open, revealed white letters over a gray-clouded sky: The Race: Tales in Flight. At the bottom, in bright red lettering, was the name of my mentor, Patrick Ryoichi Nagatani.
There is something different about this Alec Soth. Something subtly more open. The thread is still there, his poetry still visible, but something else is flowing from these works as if waves beyond human perception were brought into the visible spectrum to commingle with one another.
Perhaps the ephemeral and temporary nature of its exhibition in a screened concrete and marble Labyrinth of Capital, is the best way to give voice to a resistance, sounding from inside the cave.
Visual Notes for an Upside-down World at P∙P∙O∙W gallery aims to upend. The totality of the show offers understandings and explanations of the conditions we are in and reminds us that the guerrilla tactics of our forebears have resounding effects far beyond the historically determined periods of their respective disruptions and oppression.
Walking into Juan Pablo Langlois’s exhibition Afterwards no one will remember, at Cindy Rucker gallery, was like entering a box of Dantean episodes.
A woman falls from heights unknown. We see her from below. She wears a blue bikini, marked by red hands on her breasts and red hearts on her pubis. Behind her in the distance, neon rays the color of sunset hours burst forth at dynamic angles into the black nothingness that surrounds them.
Seen from the street, color breaks through the facade of an office building to mingle with the dynamism of the city. Sectioned lines of pinks, greens, whites, oranges, blues, and their pastel counterparts weave between the reflections of cars, pedestrians, foliage, buildings, and skylight.
The symbols that are recurrent in many indigenous cultures commingle throughout the show with those that are readily recognizable to contemporary culture such as chain-linked fences and barbed wire.
To see in artifice a natural yet invisible gesture is to be open to more than what is most obviously present.
The reds of the brick wall call out to me as I enter the gallery. I want to feel the gritty texture, the red that beckons in my mind both the clay of the earth and of blood. At 33 feet long, its foreboding presence is an affront to the space, cutting through like national borders do through the landscape. The bricks range from deep maroons to warm-tinged tones, many of which are stained with white as if washed with the calcium of bones. A wall is an indifferent object that creates difference around it, impeding movement and obscuring vision. The top of the wall reaches to about my eye level and I can see the word Imagine from Dread Scotts Imagine a World Without America peeking over from the other side.