The Word of Art

| Last updated 27/01/2009

The Word of Art is the online archive for an ongoing collection of Art Phrases, a term coined for excerpts of language accumulated from art reviews and other art world sources. Art Phrases are then used within the work of EA Byrne.
Art Phrases collected to date total 2600, so far 731 are listed below.

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Want to suggest an Art Phrase? If so please email your suggestion for review to eabyrne@thewordofart.com

The chilling possibility of violence
Very now-looking
You move through the space expecting to be cut in half by the death ray
Homebrewed graphic design
More porn than art
Surely then the job for a curator is to invigorate as well as instruct
A talent for wrongness
Provoke cheerful horror
Phew! where to start?
All art is a form of proposition so anything’s possible
Bobs up and down cheerfully in the gallery
Has all the gluey fingermarks of an enthusiastic child modelmaker (all bar the eggboxes)
Whipping up the art-historical equivalent of a storm in a teacup
Are these all, as Metzger would have it, all just undifferentiated manifestations of a rapacious, capitalist, techno-military society which is out of control
Very few contemporary artists consciously go against the flow especially at art school
I'm a cunt, this place is shit, and the artists I show are all fucked
The gore sells in buckets
The strangeness of reality
like watching the antics of provincial types on acid
A bit stand-offish to the average viewer
It’s timely, or at least trendy, to consider the relationship between art and theatre
Bathed in high voltage hues
The hand-made wonk
Her gloomy visions grow on you
Like a slightly arty birthday card
Speed it up!
I found the paintings cool (not cool like the Fonz, cool like marble)
The chilling possibility of violence
a broadening presence on the landscape
primitive relics of a simpler world
kaleidoscopic vision
expressions of free love
collisions of discordant and fragmented sounds and images
fired up with Dadaist mischief
monoliths to an earlier era
evokes private worlds of psychological unease
stricken with bouts of terminal melancholy
a refreshing play on line, colour and shape for their own formal sake
colour-driven reveries
sculptural geometries of finely wrought compositional sophistication
very now-looking
where you can loose yourself in their evocation of the void or check out chicks behind you
the idea that even artists have a propensity for optimism than a predisposition for depression
inspires a far mellower mood
has a bold celebratory feel
entertaining but not intelligent
vorticist ephemera
sci-fi homage’s
clamorous star
a sprinkling of quieter more contemplative pieces
has fashioned a more intriguing template
selected because of it’s slightness
the result is a show of ostensibly small gestures
master of understatement
that flirt with the idea of perfection
a perpetual stand-off between positive and negative elements
a surprising degree of personality and pace
power comes from slow proliferation
might be suggesting we find here a much-needed corrective, or providing a statement of intent
quietly delivered
homebrewed graphic design
ostensibly themed
the viewer falls into a crevasse of false logic
a feel for the forgery of significance
it creates a sense of volatile confusion, of panicky dislocation
idiosyncratic cornerstones
quotidian, disturbing and rich in a dislocated vocabulary of mark making
like paintings, cattle must be driven to market
of what could be called homemade, rather than machine-made, modernity
has a curiously retro, almost nostalgic feel
notions of self-referentiality
a more nuanced, ironic approach
too nauseatingly pristine
just seems pointless
creating a minimalist phasing effect
potentially free-floating, hypnotically morphing, sonic barrage
superfluously anchored within the deadening, over-familiar context of music-video imagery
any frison of anticipation immediately gives way to prudishness
manages to make the subject of sex seem academic and, well, dry
more sex-ed than unbridled passion
more porn than art
but the debate is diluted by too many horny beasts (like Rodin and Bellmer)
a disservice to the depiction of sex
it’s implicit rather than explicit
surely then the job for a curator is to invigorate as well as instruct
biomorphic suggestion
more concerned with the science of the discipline
as if systematically working through the painterly lineage in the hope of arriving somewhere new
a moment of pictorial tension
aptly describes the contemporary angst of picture making
a couple of current, yet to be Wikipedia’d painters
an unnecessary preventative measure
like watching antics of provincial types on “Eurotrash”
excavates everything that is culturally “past it”
a talent for wrongness
perversely rescues from junk culture everything that offends good taste
provoke cheerful horror
like an act of theft
rediscovered traditions
of what could be called homemade, rather than machine-made, modernity
odd and ignorant diatribe
belies such logic
You will barely find a critical article, let alone a critical word
The art world is dirty, corrupt and immoral
phew! where to start?
the highest standards of art criticism
Lewis’ diatribe is not simply ignorant; it is deeply insulting to a generation of writers
simply perpetuating the kind of anti-intellectual resentment against art that is usually to be found in the tabloids.
willfully ignorant
someone who professes to be interested in art should be so reductive and unimaginative in his approach to its contemporary manifestations.
messy doodles and boring photos
art critics like yourselves that claim lofty philosophical significance
woefully out of touch with the complex set of social, cultural and economic relationships that he so inadequately critiques.
an interest in contemporary debate was absent or even irrelevant.
lacks any real academic rigor
his subjectivism has long been a matter of controversy
he made up for his methodological deficiencies with intuitive, almost poetic insight.
mocks the very idea of monumental art
many will miss the inherent truth it imparts about the artistic act
all art is a form of proposition and anything’s possible
viewers might look straight through this transparent effigy
strained to test the boundaries of plausibility
something strangely underwhelming
Models exist somewhere between drafts, sketches and by-thoughts
quietly insistent
except his models admit their failure much more freely
disheveled, beaten-up and distinctly knackered-looking
which bobs up and down cheerfully in the gallery
has all the gluey fingermarks of an enthusiastic child modelmaker (all bar the eggboxes)
obviously not one to play grown-up
except his models admit their failure much more freely
that only ever reach an intermediary stage between painting and sculpture
his works don’t make any strong claims to be either medium and are all the more interesting as a result
modular trashy works
weightless, fragile, vulnerable but also ‘pathetic’.
aluminum hoarding teetering on the brink of collapse
sorry pile of polystyrene
at least his makeshift models display honesty
inflated sense of grandeur
with a considerable dollop of tongue-in-cheek
gives the atmospheric air of a concert venue
a textual hit-in-the-making
the art world is currently in thrall to ‘neophilia’
contemporary art has itself become a muse for the global super-rich
the reality is often much harder to swallow than all the promises of milk and honey
slackerish, style-over-substance ethos
a streak of confidence and originality
self-loathing and self-centred practice
short-lived and mind-numbing
joyous and celebratory
very feminine and hands-on
seems a little ironic
suggests that invoking divine protection might be more expedient
as if in pessimistic preparation for catastrophe
masters of Impressionism can leave you feeling a bit underwhelmed
Monet-related mania
Monet (better pronounced ‘money’ in the context of these sell-out shows)
art exhibitions stand or fall by whether the criteria for the shows are palpable
bare-faced
money-grabbing
hype-fests
instead they seem to be operating on a new, reverse blockbuster principle
perhaps disappointingly a worthy show
clearly wants to pop the bubble of blockbuster rhetoric and hype
mediocre painter
a real letdown
ends on a subdued note of failure
amid his final flurries of unfocused abstraction
not been dazzled by a parade of familiar, chocolate-box pictures
a stylistic triumph of epic proportions
sporadic flirtation with nothing more startling than plain old pencil and pastel on paper
sets out to dispel this artist-made myth
ridiculously monocled dandies
marvelous, searching studies
whipping up the art-historical equivalent of a storm in a teacup
the forgettable fag ends of his career.
not always painting or drawing at the height of their superpowers
captured the mayhem and minutiae
everything here is contrived
everything in this piazza is faked up
they sell hope and procrastination
cheerfully titled ‘No Way Back?’ (562 to go)
far from a soapbox for doomsayers
provides subtle conceptual cues
has always taken a sideways glance at such currently exigent topics
cryptic but inspirational
although he is somewhat more provocative in his methods
combining the nerve of an activist with the wit of an artist
aims to highlight our woeful attempt to become a ‘zero-waste society’
in the pursuit of cultural progress
to re-integrate art into a universally meaningful social practice
the art-work no longer exists as a container of pre-established meanings to be interpreted or misinterpreted according to the expertise of the audience
appears democratic and socially progressive
the paradox of such a rhetoric of inclusion
Having spent so long in a cultural ghetto of its own making, the artworld is now desperate to include, and be included in society
art now wants to ‘reach out’ and ‘touch people’
all art is political
very high-tech
like being caught inside the lens of a microscope in one of those early science documentaries
spoke eloquently of change and decay
transience and instability
in a very associative, open way
the problem is that such catch-all statements of rejection do little to inspire any sense of why man is inhuman to man
horror and revulsion
are these all, as Metzger would have it, all just undifferentiated manifestations of a rapacious, capitalist, techno-military society which is out of control
the sentiment of outrage is authentic
infantile obsessions and self-serving inanity of current ‘young British art’
more rewarding that skimming the latest fad in fashionable narcissism
a feeling of déjà vu overwhelms me
like taking the front off a doll's house to peer inside
conveys the magical unreality of people seen through glass
appear more like seen images than physical presences
as though creating a frame to cradle the person within
the video seems more celebratory than intrusive
more a caress than an irritant
beautifully framed, in its quiet intensity it reminded me of a Vermeer painting
but, then, I'm as unrepentant a voyeur
strange and unexpected
formalising things beyond our control.
it defines things by which they are not
like the 'eye of the storm'
triggers cultural metaphors and personal associations
transformation of the most ordinary objects into something compelling and extraordinary
The paintings are awful, indefensible, crapulous
these people can't draw, can't paint; these people should never be left alone with a paintbrush
is an exhausting bender, careening from highs to lows
fascinating, alarming, troubled and funny. Scary too, just like America
I'm a cunt, this place is shit, and the artists I show are all fucked
expressed with the same vigor, precision and exactitude
so dreadful are they that one might be forgiven for thinking there must be something to them. There isn't, except a lot of ranting
the gore sells in buckets
the spin paintings were always miserable and the big bronzes are boring
Nor has his art been particularly influential, or developed much
doing his greatest work first, saving all the repetitive stuff and the juvenilia for later.
his work has looked distinctly wobbly, lost and repetitive for years
all those Biblical allusions in his work have left him with a flagellant, self-confessional streak
just soft-soaping the old human condition con
something much too complicated for the ArtReview's number-crunchers to determine
it isn't always altogether clear what she's confessing
apparently a self-portrait
wrenchingly painful
has a whiplash vitality
more somber tone than before, despite the shouting and ranting
tender and voyeuristic
art has political consequences
unified with nature
you keep hearing the sound of Ruskin’s voice
governed by an overall order
trying to make the familiar fresh
the strangeness of reality
reeking of claustrophobia
like throwing a pot of pant in the publics face
art about art
rushing to embrace progress
relentless affirmation of the new
how demanding yet how easily they work
you could have your mind on the wall
it’s all about the simplest most straightforward thing
metaphors for current life
it connects us to something profound
it challenges the superficial
It’s a romantic notion of anarchy, not real revolution
when there were possibilities to think creatively on a grander scale
a rather ham-fisted satire on conformity an consumerism
in the cathedral of aspirational cocooning
develops a broader point on how human aspirations and desires are packaged, contained and sold back to us
declares a sort of anarchist manifesto based on stealing
provoked cheerful horror
like watching the antics of provincial types on acid
it’s timely – or at least a trendy relationship to consider
you do wonder if it’s got past first base yet
I’ve been intrigued and frustrated in equal measure
I’ve yet to see a crossover that truly works
namely a conceptual daring and visual rigor that it too often lacks
I had high hopes
a patchily curated selection of works
more interesting as catalogue-concepts than as experiences
reminiscent of a baseball stadium
a bit standoffish to the average viewer
aren’t always powerful enough to be self-sufficient
It’s supposed to create disorientation, and a sense of fragmentation
It’s timely, or at least trendy, to consider the relationship between art and theatre
but it moves too gradually to disorient anyone who regularly uses, say an escalator
something that prompted me to question whether I needed a haircut rather than my ontological status
perhaps that’s intentional
smacks of emptiness and self-regard
undoubtedly the richest work here
It questions notions of heritage, living memory, and national myth
disappointingly incurious works
the ponderous whimsy of measuring
mummifies the ephemeral appeal
a charming piece
to taxonomy the life out of it’s subject
in order to transport us away from the etiquette of the white cube
perhaps this exhibition will be most successful beyond walls
a more touching examination or spectacle
a welcome antidote to the acreage of glacial good taste found it today’s high-end, on trend contemporary art emporia
a reacquaintance with a master is often more enlightening than an encounter with yet another hot new thing
hits the spot on both counts
that manages to intrigue
bathed in high voltage hues
are a different proposition
the kick comes from a lack of colour
assemblages become hard to tell apart
attention drawn to a wide variety of surface textures
in composition and emotional temperature there’s more range than you might think
it’s not difficult to see the lusty punning
contains a strange air of violence
outlived his genius
a whimsical stylist
were more than a minor coda to a major career
eccentric bard, artist and visionary
premature epitaph
periodically buried and resurrected according to the tides of literary and artistic fad and fashion
whose language and ideas far outstrip our own in both complexity and imagination
mentally inhibit a world entirely of their own making
illustrative intensity
look to be generated by manmade nuclear fission, not divine energy
dept at creating these sorts of self-generating landscapes
pulsating, almost breathing lines of ink
beavering away in splendid isolation
destined to perpetually miss each other
an even more hermetically sealed world spills from the skilled pencils
progressively flighty pronouncements and apocalyptical imagery
true visionaries come along a lot less often
very few contemporary artists consciously go against the flow especially at art school
enemies of the imagination
an enduring, frustrating originality
these photographs reach into the lexicon of fairy tale
where sexual awakening and violence are bedfellows
both victim and viewer
main players in an elliptical narrative
and as in all great art, there’s hint of redemption in these images
made me believe that reality was not air tight
trying to approximate mysterious undercurrents through symbolic manifestations
it’s the formula all essential art follows: finding visual equivalents for inchoate feelings
the search for sacredness is at the center of this endeavor
the sense that a powerful presence has just made contact
his scenes glow with remnants of divinity
consequences are yet to be fully understood
the jetsam of contemporary America
playful and euphoric
a celebration of ephemera
an air of discovery and scientific wonder
lepidoptery-like
the result is a kind of cartographic nonsense poetry
to create humorous meta-narratives and absurdist lists
the vagaries of artistic fashion
which comment on notions of change and ephemerality
tests the fragile like between objects and their destruction
becoming both detective and dubious raconteur
a tantalizing reflection on memory, history and falsehood
all the more captivating for it’s transience and instability
clumsy and awkward
magnificent turbid seascapes
the glossy stillness
the love of the fanciful over the faithful
the romantic is once again usurped by the rational
rhythmic verses which can be nonsensical
it’s easy to get hooked on her captivating one-liners
might seem like a faint echo of her enigmatic spoken-word performances
quirky one-liners
a highly readable exhibition
dark subtlety
deliberate compositional irregularities
curious painterly combinations
incongruity of historical styles and objects
offers a compelling but fragile game of guess the source
the hand-made wonk
can feel like unnecessary distractions
perspectival tweaks
slows down the rate at which each painting is consumed
difficult to discern the conscious visual plan
but the fairy tale setting is apt
somewhere between shamanistic symbol and fetishistic fashion display
but in this context, a form of capture
art is supposed to transport you, metaphorically
poles apart aesthetically
they share a strong sense of the uncanny and bizarre
bleak, worn-out landscapes
stereotypical Nordic melancholy
her gloomy visions grow on you
seen as if through a time tunnel
merges bygone modernity with nineteen-century Romanticism
vast brooding landscapes
her sensibility goes beyond the merely nostalgic
fractured, layered and corroded technique
a world in which history and memory break down and bleed into each other
a time in which entropy and apocalypse are the only forces left
her chill and unsettling atmosphere permeates the main galleries
complex sculptures might seem goofy a first
colorful, almost cartoonish, and in love with the weirdness of their materials
like deranged fusions of alien beasts
are both abstract sculpture and hobby craft
these creations push the limits of narrative art
are both coherent and utterly untranslatable
a welcome return
like a slightly arty birthday card
it’s a stark world
full of invitations yet barriers
alternately tempting and then thwarting human entry
engaged in an animated push and pull
floating and fragmented
certainly not welcoming
vaguely sinister
themes of growth and barrenness
ultimately a frigid world
befitting it’s chilling origins
manages to convey a whole chapter of misunderstandings and blinkered arguments
avoids being formulaic shifting the register of reference from the circumstantial to the behavioral to the psychological
far from being nostalgic autobiography
this is at times brutally open evaluation
Speed it up!
I found the paintings cool (not cool like the Fonz, cool like marble)
It causes me much chin-stroking
continual suggestion of something about to happen
these perennial objects are often used to evoke human absence
suggesting not only that someone has just left but also perhaps that we ourselves are welcome
might at first provoke thoughts of convivial mingling
double-take is provocative on a number of counts
the conceptual shortcut
the unique and the mass produced, the authored and the anonymous, the exploited and the privileged, the exquisite and the mundane
more interesting than mere oppositionals
a critique pancapitalist hegemony
these organic shapes might evoke dreaded memories of A-level biology
arresting abstracts
ceases to engage and becomes frustrating
frustration makes way for boredom
one cannot help think that filling a space was the main intention here
a clue to the hammy hypnotic state the work conjures
seems to go in for this amusing, frustrating circuitous
the humour seems double-edged
shit happens
archival-looking
it has transmogrified in the process
prairie green
thoughtful approach to the nuances of representation
intermittently releases scents of nostalgia and loss
sparser presentation would serve her better, but the ambition is unquestionable
a singular voice that echoes down all the epochs of art she has lived through
clearly then, the lady has issues and they spew out in her art
compulsive viewing
not just fodder for soap opera
childhood is another innocuous theme made disturbing and difficult
rapacious art making
all hark back and inwards to the secrets and lies of her youth
rather like a turbid undercurrent of insecurity
that mutters it’s unfashionable interior monologue from a bygone era
long main she give pain
cloudily mischievous approach to good taste and political correctness
is repeated with vague compulsion fourfold
bodies swell distortedly in a parody of Mannerism
youth, sex and death hang in suspension
less a narrative artist than an amasser of derailing hints
levitates listlessly amid strangely flattened, panoramic scenes
comments on how traditions are appropriated enforced or enlarged upon
his works evince a subtler, idiomatic development
extremely hieratic compositions
distressingly war-strewn imagery
viewing the final draining in rather like anthropomorphizing yeast
perhaps dancing, fighting or performing some other shamanic teenage rite
lends us a sense of urgency
a process of shoehorning
I hate this show but in the sprit of my critical theory tutor’s maxim
might be a piss-take
reminiscent of “Teletubbies”
can work only as a subtle satire on the earnest naivety of the Hoxton art scene
must see for killer dwarves
seemingly spread with faint malice onto the wall
reprised as delicate lines of flocking
a notion that drawing is a wide-open, promiscuous practice
a sociably naïve relief of a train carriage
delirious etching
impossible to remain unmoved
impossible to remain moved
risks turning them from a call to action into fantasy about an exotic past
it's a bit of a mish-mash
weird and incomprehensible objects
machines of unknown purpose
mystifying slogans and unprovable propositions
dabbles in phenomenology and new age nonsense
critical resistance is futile
he is the Master. I will obey
there must be those who take his wilful obscurantism for creative thinking and artistic depth
the appeal passes me by
too much self-conscious eccentricity
the aesthetic is grim
is this the kind of ugliness that we later come to see as beauty?
clay floozies
great globbery inchoate clay lumps
they bulge and seethe with life
there's too much rhetoric
going beyond quotation is what matters in the end
deliberately scrappy
seemingly inconsequential
strange and tense portentousness
art is not always there to be understood
presents something like a spatial conundrum
belong to an alternative parallel history of modernism
exists at a tangent to the present, in an unspecifiable there and then
the line never loses its sinuousness or surprise and agility
utterly consistent, even with all its anomalies and flaws
something of a category error
quiet and disturbing paintings seem utterly right and unexpected
their work is intelligent, disarming, subtle and, at moments, unexpectedly touching
it is difficult to imagine anyone disliking it
somehow, a little bit suspect
perfect copies of disordered corners of the world
I feel oddly weightless - and empty
bland but slightly scary
unstable and baroque arrangements
precarious agglomerations are crazy balancing acts
resemble animals or preposterous little scenes from life
captivated by a relentless kinetic display of cause and effect
It is magical and destructive - and brilliantly paced
pointlessly magnificent violence
such a brutal, mechanistic view of the world can be so uplifting
looks worryingly like the place described by those who have survived near-death experiences
a celebration of the normal
all this normality is getting on my nerves
that their work is so benign is itself a trap
as a record of friendship, futility and stoicism
as a sort of quest, and in each is utterly inconclusive
I think of a sad postwar bohemia, earnestness and lost values
proper painters do this. I've seen them
, I think to myself, is what painting after the death of painting has come to, art after art, mourning after mourning
lack of talent posing as meaningful art
shouldn't I be taking it as a bit of post-postmodern irony
the bum- end of a great tradition
their real power lies in what they leave hidden
pithily
like a long interrogation, or a painful psychoanalysis
It is as though we were searching for a break: the flaw, the way in, the final explanation
unexpected moments of humour and happiness making the story even more bleak
grinding entropy
melodramatic, sometimes silly and or spooky-seeming
a seductive talent
manages to be both clever and moronic, relentlessly stupid and occasionally profound
he seduces many of us into thinking of him as a major talent
often pales through overexposure
hard to fathom, many are deeply macabre
made with a degree of care and craft at odds with the spiritual and material impoverishment inherent to his drawings
It is misshapen and ugly in just the right way
they don't quite manage to remain true in voice
they're all a bit self-conscious and contrived
all art is, to a degree, self-portraiture
kneejerk nihilism
he acts as if he's too exhausted (or just too cool) to do anything more than crank out slacker clichés
relentlessly infantile
in a hamfisted style
somehow managed a sort of horrible, brutalised grandeur
operating on a cusp between humour and horror
in its way truthful, or at least plausible
stop pissing about, and start pissing us off
products of a kind of inwardness, of detachment and fixatedness
their colour is also frequently elusive and off-key, as though it belonged to a memory rather than the present moment
in the end the art must win, prizes or no prizes
somehow it feels wrong and out of context
their smoothly softened, sucked-toffee shapes
out-of-whack, cocktail-hour colours
vaguely generic modern art forms
it all has a cumulative, creepily sentimental horror
reminds one of all sorts of artwork one has seen before
the film is deeply sad, a miserable miracle
gives us a chance almost to freeze it, presenting it as a simulacrum of itself
he is very good at teasing out meanings and metaphors
the title may be a poor pun, but the work itself is clever and barbed
on the impotence of protest and of art itself as a form of protest
how rich this work is, and how saddening our state
excellently double-edged
architectonic simulations
Lilliputian grandeur
a brand of guiltless artificiality
metaphysical freshness
a dimension of intimacy
simultaneously charms and intrudes
a gritty uniform tapestry
a sense of disproportion
dehumanishing and absurd
faintly oppressive vastness and order
mini narratives of alienation
a somber, monolithic quality
sublime
inhuman in scale
familiar in function
the hidden face of modernity
the sublime becomes almost mundane
a vertiginous quality
the imprint of vast bureaucracies
sinister technological ambitions
gives you a moment to get your bearings
invocations of the sublime
the notion of transcendence
excessive theatricality
a baroque tornado of sorts
a primordial organisim
simply outlandish or uncanny
implies the notion of reclamation
a thunderous and claustrophobic low rumble
a corrosive boom
the process of self-invention
a metaphysical mousetrap
it’s good fun and it’s poignant
it all makes for creepy and fascinating viewing
efforts as coherent and pointy as this
an aura of truthfulness
in the frantic style of a used-car salesman trying to off-load a dodgy Dodge
it is a properly tacky modern award
something primitive and terrible
fundamental unknowability
cruel and rapacious
style rather than reality
attempting to embrace the mundane
hoping to access the uncanny
a stifling construction of gesture
pulsating frenetically
fantastical perversion
a unique vernacular mythology
intimate contexts of pattern and colour
fields of warm saturated hues
a diary of dreams
a volume of fairy tales
the never-ending struggle between polarities and ego
the absence of a clear linear narrative
the psycho-social dimension
symbolic dramas
the gravity of the subject
a sense of presence and familiar dislocation
epic and transcendent
longing is universal
ready to be worked back into future reverie
anything is allowed liberalism
communicates
a pejorative connotisim
communicates a desire for simplicity
on empirical approach to experiencing the world
return on the tangible
far fetched dreams
ill-founded utopian promises
a realignment of priorities
an institutional gob-fest
post-psychedelic disenchantment
polemically valuable
smoothes the edges and cleans the grunginess of the world it so blithely colonises
examples of aesthetic instability
this structural lacuna
reassuring
seemingly perverse and pointless
to reject the sentimental and the romantic
natural grandeur
notions of religious or mystic awe
the sublime and the picturesque
syncopated rhythm
suggests a journey
a lulling and symphonic loop
the pace of contemplation
deliberate and analytical
a cipher for the pathology of modernism
these moments of helplessness
somber and traumatized
mesmerizing and beautiful
a Ballard of uncontrollable consequences
the collapse or originality
the ensuing cycle of formalist rebirthing
a certain piquancy
strikes unexpected formal chords
elusive and enigmatic
a dust flecked travesty
It’s too far fetched
an archive of art-speak
mute players in a mysterious drama
stark and self-contained visual aids
the woolly core of the narrative resides in a soundtrack that fills the space
resembles the tumbling avalanche
to flood and otherwise innocent scenario with significance
mock-muse-ological display
not so much parts of continuous narrative as divergent outcomes of a generic starting-point
perplexing
suggests connections
waiting to be made and a riddle to be solved
questions queue up to be answered
it seems rash to start pointing fingers
leaves us high and dry on a plateau of banality
apocalyptic ephemera
gothic sensibility as well in the claustrophobic, obsessive accumulation of details
esoteric obsessions
yearning idealism tempered by its humble composition
perhaps echoing the miscarried social aspirations of urban-ists
shifting it slightly to cause a more profound disorientation
maverick meditations on senselessness and beauty
Colliding together a wealth of references
perhaps because the piece (wittingly?) fails to take us anywhere
gnarled trees that play with tradition of anamorphic design
there seems to be a complete absence of pleasure
as being driven into the realm of Shoreditch-Williamsburg
somewhat naïve and decorative
the pictures are spectacular
creating forms with the most perfunctory gestures
visual bedazzlement and cerebral provocation
studies in unlikely urban beauty
proceeds by meticulous suggestion
“Uncanny” is definitely the word
an almost Catholic transubstantiation
in various states of distress
unflinching provocations of human endeavor
demonstrates an elegance of line and subtlety of gesture
suggestive of a perfect, cloudless sky above
mimics natural phenomena such as sunsets and lakeside vies
emphasis seems less on emulating a particular vista
preoccupied by the tension between the artificial and the natural
appears to be valiantly performing an epic task
appears to be involved in a motionless battle of wills
alerting viewers to their own position in relation to the work
feels like a classical example of the pseudo-meaningful-yet-ultimately-confusing moniker that so often fronts art shows
vivid high-detail
tedious is-it-abstract-is-it-figurative formalist games
dogmatic realism
a rich act of violence and destitution
bleak but quirky
reports of the death of painting have clearly been exaggerated
whose variety and impact are likely to be a crowd-pleaser
comes up with a somewhat dehistoricside and fenced-off account of its subject
a seamless and self-justifying narrative that leaves a lot unsaid
offering some problematic counterpoints
dogmatic pursuit of paintings-that-look-very-much-like-photographs
but you know a canonical canard when you see one
it may share its narrative technique with the opening titles of Star Wars
startling in their directness
obstructing our complacent acceptance of a reality which is always anyway fiction
sticks somewhat ungenerously to a narrow visual range
wayward in this context

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