Wisrah C. V. da R. Celestino at‬ Kunstraum Leuphana

(link)

Conceptual art's legalese sets a premise:"keys to a building," displayed but unused; or:"ceiling color chosen by mom," a premise without theory - thought is cut before completion. You are left to imply the rest. It's poetic. Signification without significance. You make it up yourself. Art infers meaning without providing meaning. This is how art becomes meaningful. This is how conceptual art become's Prisoner's Cinema. 

See too: Ghosts: "Writing about blank art you are confronted with the theater of your skull.  Devoid of stimuli the brain seeks recognition, applies logic to nothing to make sure the world retains solvency, coherence as defense against the face of meaningless abyss. Eyes phosphene in darkness, in vacuity your mind alights. This is how god exists. This is how Peter Halley's paintings exist. It's called Prisoner's Cinema.  Blankness rewards the already full mind. Blankness hands the viewer back to themselves, allowing all the self-satisfied self-congratulations the viewer can self-muster. It's called projection. Art abhors vacuum. You cannot kill content if you tried. Because art is baggage, preloaded with a cultural et al. 

"[Because] not knowing is unacceptable, and rejection of the object would prove viewer's impotence, thus created an environment where artists are able to produce further and further extremes of blankness filled by those refusals to not-know, whose sensory deprivation creates phantasms, see the abyss looking back because we are doing the projecting.

"The wider the distance between signs/images the greater the space to be filled, the grander the concept, the impossible gap, generally seceded to the viewer. This is our conceptual moment. Objects have meaning, we cannot pass that off, and the distance between them, grand like the canyon, vacant and large. ...the only thing left to do is to produce greater and greater gulfs of meaning.

"The tension: whether this beacon actually broadcasts idea. Or simply clears space for fill, me, this, now.

"In dark forests we imagine predators, in trees see intelligence. In confusion we excel at inventing gods, or meaning."

See too: "Conceptual art mutated into three genres, 1, zombie abstraction; 2, art legalese, say Cameron Rowland or Daren Bader/Martin Creed; and 3, myth attractors. "

Richard Prince at Sant'Andrea de Scaphis

(link)

Is this a Kaufman reality bending skit? Or is Richard Prince really so self-grandiose to bloviate this hard under questioning? Or, after the lightbulb moment of greg.org publishing his first deposition, did Prince see the metaphorical soapbox awaiting his spotlight to bloviate. It would be appropriate. And Kaufmanesque. Weirdly the more "authentic" Prince gets, the more Fischer Price the whole deposition feels. Prince's and the artworld's high-speech feels chintzy against the procedural of legal questioning. No one reacts at all to Prince's deludes, except to worry about Prince's own time here. One of the zaniest things about the testimony is how inflated Prince's opinion is of his work. And how he keeps trying to reframe questions into grand timescales of art history and rapid firing dead European painters. It all feels Kaufmanesque. But repeating the joke is what Prince is good at. 


See too: "Art, in all its critical hooha, attempts to both access the real as politics while at the same time asserting its critical distance as a sovereign land of pure ideation or whatever. The friction (and paradox) of these two positions is never more apparent than when the artworld sends one it’s s creative sovereign citizens into the courtroom where inevitably our kingdom's Prince loses his legal battle and the artworld collectively wrings its hands and decries a legal system not quite understanding the rub. We, artworld, are bodies collectively absolved of debt. Or so it were."

"A joke can only be told so many time. "A joke is spent and exhausted. So an artwork - with its requisite implicit promise of eternalness - can't really make a joke without implying that it too will one day be depleted. [Richard] Prince's real joke is that the paintings keep telling the same joke for years and years stupidly." 

Mona Filleul at Air de Paris

(link)

During painting's 2020 surrealist phase there was a subgenre of turbo David Salle. Painting as "cultural flypaper" collecting reference stuck to its support, a miasma of cartoons/image/internet/whatever. The idea isn't bad. Painting, after all, is a tray to collect image/culture. The painter gives it a little swirl and voila, art. But bathrooms walls collect better. Graffiti sediments the unconscious at night. The irruption on the walls of a bedroom is seminal. Just stuff, often more interesting than art.

See too: Subgenres of surrealism, "the kids grown on cartoons have arrived and their childhoods have coincidentally, absurdly, become the accurate depictions of the way the world has begun to feel"

Minami Kobayashi at Bel Ami

(link)

Bonnard, Vuillard, Rodin, Gaugin, complaining that we keep repeating this is like complaining that bouquets still contain lilies. Adrenalized paint, like flowers, never goes out of style. Who would complain about another bouquet, about playing the hit a second time? A Dining Room in the Country returns in a second hand store. Now vintage. Stretch that song to thirty minutes at the Fillmore. Replay it a hundred years. Revamp the band with younger painters. Think how much those dead heads stole from the east. It okays the return eternal to playing it again but livelier. 

Ulla von Brandenburg at Barakat Contemporary

(link)

The vacancy that pervades, it's more understandable when the artist comes from scenography. They're supposed to lack subject. That emptiness you feel, that's art.

There was the briefest micro-genre of "theater art" - Otto-Knapp, Lutz-Kinoy, Okiishi, Mauss - for whom art leveraged its ostensible excuse/raison as painting-as-backdrop to make totally gentle paintings. Which went wayside when people just started making paintings again, no excuse needed. But the original "real-fake doors/paintings" may be Heimo Zobernig (also coming out of theater scenography)  - who made a stupider and therefore more menacing version, a truly fake art that by getting mixed into the real stuff presented a pretty scary question, until we decided it didn't matter, the art party needed its backdrop.

See too: "in the style of ancient plated mirrors, an object of vanity for the rich, giving them back exactly what was loved most, their surroundings, their homes, their empire and visage."

Greg Parma Smith at Museum im Bellpark

(link)

The icon (the symbol, the chart, tarot) is inherently pointed. It is a sign. But a sign where signifier does not require a signified. The point is signification, not significance. This is the task of painting. To appear meaningful. To jewel hieroglyphs and pretend a rosetta stone. Parma Smith makes the jeweling obvious, arbitrary, faceting our semio-gemstones, painting, they are shells, empty, and yet it works. 


See too: "These are the painterly wreaths that halo meaning. Bestow objects a blessing. In a video game the object would hover and spin. In a novel, the detective would pull them from earth for a magnified look. The monolith us monkeys dance around, point at. They are the MacGuffin. The monolith only as meaningful as the plot/painting can ascribe it. The actual meaning is in this means to distribute meaning."

Chou Yu-Chenga at Kiang Malingue

(link)

Embryonic seed inside the maternal gourd/womb, painted in Pantone color-of-the-year stained glass. Made for a baby's room. Or a designer Maternity Ward. Someone has to design the paintings for hospitals where surrogates roam. High end. Something a little more designer than glassed prints of yellow foliage and seaside homes. Something more hospitable. No need to be afraid of being nice.

See too: We find this wanton sensitivity almost unnerving in art, we fear the institutionalization of its form, the hospitalization of "sentiment." ; Pantone color of the year painting.