The artist schizo-neurosis love/hate of the printed image. Imagine being an artist confronted daily w/ onslaught of freely disseminated images, and knowing it’s accelerating. A world near comprised of images. And so of course artists “deal with it.” Princes lubricated masturbation of them, the reinsemination of the Marlboro Man's potential, DISimages inhabitation of the acceleration, the interminable unknown artists cut/collaging porn reifying the fetish of print itself, the McCarthy all-hands-on-deck scorched earth blitzkrieg against. Artists are losing the battle, neurotically and nervously, a where-can-we-even-stand type philosophical conundrum. But so, here, it’s nice to see some reserved expenditures of image explication. Tending towards a mockery but saved by the slowness of its accumulating angles of approach. Sure some is stock critique, but handled well and still looking slightly fresh even in its Heubler-esque dryness, none of the cut-crystal ideologic perfection of Levine/Lawler’s jewels way more sexy than all these half-naked women. Same generation, a little browner.