(Academie Conti, Le Consortium)
Print the painting, how cold and deliciously malevolent it all seemed at the time until our own body temperature fell so low to match it that eventually even Scheljdahl felt warm towards a retrospective of them. Everyone stressed endlessly the physicality of them, that poor ol' Guyton had to actually tug them out of the printer, that it was tough work, a little sweat, a little body heat, not absolute zero, but this extraction only served to underscore the fantasy of the creative act soon able to be stretched out from digital ethers like raw id tugged from digital subconscious, and erect in a gallery. That we could lose our hands in the printing press because soon our wet desire would just print itself as diamonds on a wall, we could stop tugging them off in studios, and the Onanist accident of its spills and smears prevented reproduction, the accident made them unreproducible, sterile.
But now 2016 in the era of Atkinsian avatar-conciousness, and Rachel Rosist digital semio-corruption we understand that the digital was just a new pool to self-reflect in, and we're still looking into it wanking. Look a Guyton self-portrait appears up in it.
See too: Zak Prekop at Shane Campbell, Cheyney Thompson at Raucci/Santamaria, Daniel Lefcourt at Blum & Poe
