(Miriam Cahn at Jocelyn Wolff)
The material presence of Cahn’s dusty surfaces that the work is predicated on is here instead given a physical presence to occupy real space, the spectral planes become exhibitionist bodies, hewn logs simply scattered. This of course is the most romantic - nearing nostalgic - pleasure afforded by art today, to remember the days of bodies. Yet overt sentimentality is balanced in their formal dumbness, the directness of the intention, the pleasure of physical bodies without the formal wankery of Puryear. Just dumb lumps molded to softness, sanded skin looking like dough, the gross stupidity of our bodies, something entirely erotic about the fan shape etched in flesh.
See too: Cathy Wilkes at Tramway
