The awkward of minimalism of Grosvenor, a sort of cartoony literalness. The “sculpture” here, the triangular vehicle, becomes dreamlike fetish or totem. Impossible to understand as either sculpture or functional object, it’s surreal like all those lobster telephones or floating basketballs, suspended between art and enterprise.
Best in the artless construction, the simple cum uncanny, off. Photos of vernacular construction whose means make a sort of sense, but odd. Makers who follow their own impossibly developed logic to its own ends. The blue steps. The impossibly phallic car. The little wheel.
