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Things modernism might cough up in the night, a visceral utterance, hacked. Sort of becoming-modernism, an abject type. Resembling - as opposed to mimetic or autonomous forms - this in-betweeness - which wasn't so acceptable then, not a pure ideation, but happy with amorphousness. Occasionally resembling Lynda Benglis's objects of around the same time, they seem a caricature of the dominant masculine modes, and too bad Cluett missed the whole unmonumental resurgence. (We weren't really resurging artists in the same way then were we.) But there's something very now about these now, and its too bad that things have to be ordered like that.