Tuesday, December 14, 2010

ruminations of a young artist continued...

A young artist sits in front of the computer. The framerate flickers before his eyes. The first cup of coffee, one youtube video leads to another. Wikipedia. Learning many new things. This is a complex world. Information, Wikileaks. What is free? This is a fucked-up place.

Among the ruins, a small boy emerges. The villagers are in awe. A fantastical creature, half-cat half-dog, mister Sauerkraut. He whispers in the boy's ear: "use art the way you would use anything else." A sage's advice in a world that has already met its end.

The complications of having a post-studio practice in an object-selling world are many. What a sport to materialize ideas into appealing, transitive objects. Art schools are a site where this athletic imperative is in full gear. Given a studio by the same institution that produces legitimized value through academic credentials, how is one to imagine an adequate transition from this pedagogical conundrum to a professionalized adult life?

From the melancholic vacuousness of information's manic accessibility to the quirky hodge-podge of performative wikiselves, the labor of extracting historicity from the shallow tidepool of contemporary art's recent historical awareness becomes a key tool for constructing a career from other careers. Many emergent young players on art's Occidental map build these legitimizing techniques into careers marked by a fluidly object-based practice that relies wholly on the avoidance of redundancy. The need for an aesthetic that never repeats itself too much, concealing the repetitive pattern of labor through randomly assembled artistic novelties wrought material—art production to the tune of iShuffle. The economy's constant need for excitement and can-do imperatives re-territorialize the post-studio studio, transforming the site into a concept-engineering workshop that explores the art object's communicative appeal across the gamut of publicized taste. Within an open-source market, options abound.

Yet how many ideas can one fit in one show? Is more than one too much, falling as it could into tasteless excess? Should the multitude be crafted into a focus group, fanboys whose enthused will-to-consumption determines the very object-derived experiences that they seek? True, that the canalization of information's animistic spirit into discreet objects is a sorrowful affair. What constitutes the post-"studio" if not the begotten mind of the creative producer: a novel site where many moods and inspirations come and go at their own leisure. The stranglehold of the marketer's sardonic sentiments onto the art object is an inheritance best suited for nonentities; dupe artists keen on amassing slush funds for a political life possible outside of art.

Sitting with an artist. Punk rock pizza. Wearing bless pants. "The show will be remarkably clear: One idea, 13 oil paintings, 13 numbers. 1 to 13." Roman numerals? "Not this time. We could use them to number the slides though, what do you think?" The pizza is hot. It burns my tongue. "Are you okay?" I clench my sphincter.

Monday, December 13, 2010

ruminations of a young artist

A young artist sits in front the computer. The framerate flickers before his eyes. The first cup of coffee, one youtube video leads to another. Wikipedia. Learning many new things. This is a complex world. Wikileaks. What a fucked-up place…

Among the ruins, a small boy emerges. The villagers are in awe. A fantastical creature, half-cat half-dog, mister Sauerkraut. He whispers in the boy's ear: "use art the way you would use anything else." Sage advice in a world that has already met its end.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

for those long commutes…at war with the preps: magoo mix #1

That contemporary art and fashion lacks rock'n'roll is without debate. However, the notion that it ever could ever make up for such a lack is just as—if not more so—naive and ludicrous, mapping as it would a global market with the ageist and hubristic spirit of imperial commerce. That the chauvinist-eschewing microgenres of deep house and coldwave have recently emerged as the martial score to metropolitan creativity and its libidinal After-Dark is a completely practical expression of the two faces, ecstasy and anxiety, of networked productivity and its progressive sexual identities. Rather than rock's aggressive communion between its fecund author and wanton audience—a heteronormative schtick whose pursuit leads only to the author's abject objectification (see this), these two genres disperse the authority of such a communion across the android sexual relations particular to immaterial captial—be it deep house's ecstasy of the non-reproductive city-as-factory or seen in coldwave's subject herking & jerking to an anxiously revised historical object.

It is within these contextual tensions that AOWJM is pleased to present "At War With The Preps," a mix of music that blindly instrumentalizes seraphic argot with an impolite brun canard.


Friday, December 3, 2010

magoo venues: apotheke

wasn't there a certain brand of parsons-bred installation art use to look like this before being a crypto national-socialist was acceptable?
a warm feeling of nostalgia in time for the holidays!

where are you and who are these people? it is nice to not "get" the product you are consuming. is it magic?

dressed in silkscreened polyester guido shirts mocking the aryan beliefs via skulls and eagles they had originally integrated to their personal fashion style non-ironically, they made apotheke this groovy place to sip chartreuse and eat marinated pork tongues to the sound of relentless gabba.

many reasons to be excited by this bar—how many Chinese gangsters have shed their blood on the wooden surface your artiste biedemeyer cocktail rests on? the throbbing techno makes it impossible to have this conversation inside the bar, but it creates a binding atmosphere where all are forced to retreat into getting trashed on sophisticated cocktails as their skulls are raped by audio.

an provence launch? a multiplayer level for COD Black Ops? everything seems possible.

this place is a thrill...
2 get trashed
at apotheke
tonite, is cool

; -)

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Antek Walczak @ Real Fine Arts

Who constitutes the constituency of Jay-Z's recent hit, Empire State of Mind? Simple, Jay-Z himself. In this chintzy jingle advertising a city of one, Jay-Z offers a retrospective look at the able adaptation of his self to the mythic social technique of swapping destitute criminality for the assimilable constitution of respectable elites. Jay-Z's cashes in on the social machine that collapses illegality into legitimate being, the entrepreneurial spirituality that refines the streets on which anyone can walk into the limelight that shines only on, and for, you.

One could also view Antek Walczak's current show, "Empire State of Machine Mind," as a cash-in as well, albeit one mobilized for very different ends. Known previously for his involvement in Bernadette Corporation as well as a writer and filmmaker in his own right, compared to these diffuse, object-resistant projects Walczak's (one could say in the spirit of enterprise) latest artistic venture is a legitimately conventional one: painting—an object so conventionalized that even its ironic iterations are admitted to its assimilable pantheon.

"Empire State of Machine Mind" includes four large canvases whose sole formal element is a schematic illustration of the chorus of Jay-Z's obnoxious anthem compressed by the Lempel Ziv Welch algorithm hand-painted onto primed canvas. Visually and conceptually updating Picabia's machine paintings, OULIPO's textual laboratories and Warhol's dance diagrams for a virtual present, Walczak's paintings also seem fabricated for a contemporary moment that prefers painting "beside itself;" paintings as historically-privileged discursive objects whose commodity status is ostensibly unmoored by dispersive relationships to socially-networked productivity. Yet unlike many of Walczak's New York-based peers whose work operates within this broad rubric–a rubric that largely serves to legitimize epistemologically ineffectual object-based practices–"Empire State of Machine Mind" goes one step further by not taking it–the reprocessing of cultural artifacts into networkable datum, that is–all so sincerely.

Like Broodthaer's famous realization of poetry's impossible object as an insincere work of art, Walczak's use of the contemporary canvas mobilizes a similar critical resolve. By instrumentalizing the code of networked painting to this programmatic chorale of Gothamite success, Walczak's objects achieve a critical posture not through the sincere reterritorialization of medium-specificity across the spectrum of post-Fordist productivity (or perhaps is it just the indexical by-product, the gentrifying ordure of financialized conviviality?) but rather through the insincere re-presentation of such an art's epistemological use as the ideal object of governable subjects, as assimilable codes of being situated around the metropolitan canvas. "Empire State of Machine Mind" reminds viewers of the criminal artifact that informs contemporary art's legible objects. That it is within the coded translation, or compression, of illegitimate life–with its impossible poetry and criminality–into the enforced world of ledgered value rests the critical potential that is to be found within, or beside, the contemporary painted object.
Is it by working through the machinations of contemporary (maybe advanced?) artistic production—which in Walczak's case is the supplementation of the ontological priorities of "transitive" commodity production with the material by-product of information capital, that art might conceivably defect from its servile conscription in finance capital's endless war? Picture if you will, "I prefer not to…" forged from the soul of an IT technician. Or more likely, an IT technician whose illusions of artistic grandeur presents a momentary crisis of value.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

No Presents for Christmas: Lionel Maunz @ Bureau

The circulation of extreme metal identities about financialized culture is nothing surprising (as if any identity resists circulation…). These identities have been parasited by capital since their inception: Thurston Moore's bootleg 7" capturing Venom's stage-banter being a first-wave example of this, ossifying a highly circulated joke-tape among america's hardcore punk circles––the recording was made by a Black Flag crony when the band opened up for Venom in '86––into a saleable piece of wax for Moore's boutique "indie" label, Ecstatic Peace. Harmony Korine's use of Mystifier and Nifelheim as a score for his Dogpatch cum mondo-fashion ad, Gummo, is a prime example of the second wave, oedipally reprimanding all soon-to-be Vice readers for not matching their Darkthrone tees and homemade Slayer tattoos with red & black flannel or ironic mustaches. Furthermore that the identities associated with metal can be traced to the origin of KISS's merchandising empire goes to show how available such a subjective posture is to consumer docility and the agency of abject accumulation (merch hoarders, etc.).

So what happens when someone whose identity hinges on the cathexis with such consumer tropes decides to make contemporary art? Well, the last few decades brought us a taste in the guise of Matthew Barney. But now we are provided with a full-on feast thanks to Lionel Maunz's current show at Bureau, "Wail Eternal Scorn of Geologic." That I mentioned Barney is no coincidence, Maunz draws heavily from Barney's output as a sculptor and draughtsman, yet inauspiciously avoids the abject-baiting performativity that is the core of Barney's lionized practice. Instead, Maunz's sculptural work comes across like stage dressings for a concert (excuse me, "ritual") where even the scheduled acts don't even show up, sculptures that make one wish more people had taken to heart Michael Fried's foreswearings against theatricality.

The drawings fare better, perhaps solely on the merit that their physical encroachment on reality is limited to the virtual surfaces of the picture-plane. A mix of the mystical hoo-haw not only of Barney but also of wackos like Paul Laffoley or Stanislav Szukalski with the refined pencilwork of plagarized-by-Quorthon illustrator, Jos A. Smith. Within these works Maunz more convincingly illustrates the corporeal mysteries that are the emotional core of most "extreme" culture, offering the viewer schematic prompts to "Fornicate the Pyramid of Being" or that "Paradise lies in the shadow of swords," or no doubt other carnal mysteries to ambiguously seize.

Yet it is these very corporeal obsessions of extreme metal, the dasein of the mortuary, that provide it with a self-aware agency in the face of limitless capital; that the ecstatic limit of mortal life is offered as a bitter riposte to Empire's enforced paradise of self. For a cultural knowledge that began within the logic of consumer goods whose preordained obsolescence effects an inevitable death (picture if you will a cheap product gaining sentience only to remark, "only death is real") upon their objective livelihood, being asked to "Fornicate the Pyramid of Being" isn't a half-bad notion.

Thursday, November 25, 2010


the beautiful ELAD LASSRY in my room at the STANDARD HOTEL

Monday, November 22, 2010


Josh Kline, Stuff, 2010, Mixed Media

At the confluence of tenuously held real estate, fractured subjectivities, and contaminated wares one finds the recent group show at White Columns. No need to go into the details, all the moes who read this blog know it all anyway... So where to really start then? The collective vibe is thick but the butter is weak, especially when it replaces canvases—oh soap :(... In all frankness it feels like walking into a party where several good friends are lost in social haze rich with snooze, people droning off about celebrities you don't care about, food no one eats, viral vids, career outlook, etc. No, I don't want a cocktail; no, I don't read New York Magazine; no, I grew up without electricity. The chicanery of appropriated banality fails to cease being pulled from its quotidian mores, rather the dullness of lower manhattan's street commerce finds itself dumped into the flabby sac of air that epitomizes the lugubrity particular to new york's non-for-profits. Might as well buy a house in bergen county and get on with your ever-constricting Weltschmertz. Here I wrote you a poem:

Your youth is over
wasted on these wildless streets
woe is you even though you
will say woe is me.

Yes I'm the bitter dick,
ye olde Ragged Dick
savoring plastic water
tossed from a party window.
Hark! From that end of the spectrum,
do I swallow?

Thursday, November 18, 2010

pure ravishing grimness


while we here at AO are slowly warming up to the idea of publishing art criticism about less obvious targets, the tired, formless faces of the subhumans dragging tired repressed facebook bodies in the streets of the metropolis and the accumulation of increasingly decadent forms of cultural blasphemies reminds us that the finest dish one finds when out for free thrills on a Thursday night at the New Museum is not dumplings or void discursivity—although one surely finds a lot of that—it is PURE HATRED. There is nothing like the NuMu to stir up and actualize deeply held heartfelt monarchist convictions...


is there anything in the NuMu—this temple of pure ravishing grimness where everything in place brutally assaults non-cybernetic thought, reaps lifeforms and militarizes "queer"—that doesn't call for a special tribunal against itself? while a lot on view at least offers a sacred orgonic tabernacle for PURE EXECRATION, AO only remembers very bad things from the NuMu date, adding to which countless others have been traumatically suppressed. here are artifacts that achieved the simultaneous traumatic value and putrid vileness required to win an AOWJM ZIVILISATIONSUNTERGANG AWARD!

1 - Takeshi Murata's fully retarded, autistic and surprisingly reactionary remake of now copyright-free popeye. long rendering times unfortunately cannot mask the vile stench..

2 - Rashaad Newsome's anal retentive, vacuous hipster collages from google image searches, framed in vintage gold frames borrow from all things low and manage to sink somewhat lower with added lameness. can such putrefaction be understood, as the moronic wall text suggests, to imitate hip-hop in its potential to "elicit emotional and visceral responses that can be universally recognized and felt"? hopefully, yes...

3 - Amanda Ross-Ho's terrible, highly bloggable and brutally camp hipster art. Pure hellenistic detritus? Trash-humping beside itself?

Honorable mention: NateLo's process-based addendum to a pestilential cluster of crafty detritus (in The Last Newspaper), DJ's playing loud music to a wall of dash snow collages, etc.

shows like these really make visible deterritorialized capital's tendency to justify itself by all means necessary as soon as it happens to slip beyond traditional models of relevance (or morality). what could possibly save this frigid neoliberal bunker from the inverted putrescence it's become a champion of?
could a curatorial program rooted in incest at least pack some donk?

AO wants order and discipline! HAIL SATAN

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Ull Hohn @ ALgus gReensPon

Digging into the still unsettled soil of the 1990's, Algus pulls out another corpse for display. Is it a martyr or just a bad painter? or both ;-) From AO's recent on-site investigation we have concluded that, for reasons that escape us, no one cares. Is there a lacking alchemical essence, No solve et coagula that heats the seat of so many doe-eyed art critics? Yet what's on view is certainly worthy a glance. Most notably for its inverted take on art's lingering monographic obsessions as Hohn––himself facing the reaper's sickle––imagines gerhard richter's early death so as to piss on the old fart's heteronormative grave. The intricate Nachträglichkeit of being German has never before been so felt (or maybe it has, but only by Annette Schwarz), praise god, hail satan!

Hohn's frank statements, sometimes painted atop an "anal" wash or backdrop, elicit a train of connotations and ponderings; it's not hard to finish the punch line, follow the trail of urine and dook into whipsy hazes of knowing ineptitude. These works demand to be taken as a collection of ironic one-liners, despite all appearances of this work falling in line with recent Teutons' adorable criticality. They are total performative acts of painterly sacriledge, of singing heavy metal like a "faggot", of sodomizing aristocrats with a sunday painter's easel. An aptitude of cultivated insensitivity, shamelessly diving headlong into overdetermined painterly rough trades, as in Tan Enamel, 1993, a large canvas from a series in which abstraction is equated with abjection, where these works' alchemy is lead into gold but gold into excrement. Hohn's staged blasphemes of painted desecration and belligerent commentary both swap the painter's studio for a body whose sickness is an outrage––figuring a painting that is an explicit act of protest against the hegemonic valuations of a politically indifferent elite; confronting the viewer with the hazards of art and its miraculous potential––an alchemy created by the adversarial coupling of its basest material.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Hard not to think of closet gay Phil Anselmo's pre-adolescent musings about growing into a giant "godsize" overlord upon stepping into Chelsea Gagosian. A foreclosed hetero sexuality could be a site for a self-h8ing Guido-lifeform to lurk (not masturbating: a form of self-love or at least self-"though love" via purification...). Here, a straight-edge whatever-sexual top who lives by the code of penis hygiene, muscles and health. "Poetry"—"blue balls"?, "respect the cock"?—produces a morgue in which products generally "considered rogue by art and society"(a different class of consumers that never appears) provide the fitting backdrop to a casual cast of performers: professionalized 20-something girls behind laptops, too many security guards—everything awkwardly coagulating in a thin mist of depression. Fashion-the-reaper not as Leopardi's devote servant of Death, but something much worse: the cadaveric sight of a cop eating a fruit salad. What is most putrid about Dan Colen 2.0 is the zeal to demote lifeforms as "dirt", a disappearing "cleaning up" act accompanied by a clear injunction for the confused heterogeneity of the fucked-up body (the drug addict's, whose dick and art are interchangeable: prosthetic limbs (not just symbolically) penetrating the virginal apparatus of contemporary art) to be relegated to the realm of the dead—a crystalized cadaver walled in Interview Magazine and old issues of Vice. Now that the migration to a drug-free, toilet-trained jeune-fille body is complete, the objects are free to desire a thorough re-territorialization of the very processes they spawn from: a fascination with shit and it's cousin money. How would the fumes emanating from a large canvas covered in real shit commingle with all-american fragrances like bubble gum, turpentine, cum stain and brand new motorcycle tires in a showroom...

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

coming soon to magoo

If you can't tell from the pic, aowjm is livid. Expect vitriolic reviews rife with belligerent imbecility and unmitigated thoughtlessness. uuuuughhh...

Friday, June 25, 2010


The press release announcing Kathy Grayson's new job would have been a great addition to both Artforum's summer issue about institutional re-structurings and the Tea Party Nation newsletter. A heroic tale of simple men and women who stand up and fight for their creative community, K's, blogs and lifestyle in times of economic turmoil. Can you say "awesome" with your mouth full of coins? What's an "art show" anyways? Come and tell us: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz


Tuesday, June 22, 2010

update: ah sadly it was taken down, maybe one day it'll resurface. it's not everyday one observes gagosian and a gaggle of friends drunkenly construct an orgy with maurizio cattelan pieces.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

notes re: the new provence

A proper review of provence 3 has been long overdue here at AO and unable that we are to attend either of the launch events accompanying the new issue O or even just look at a physical copy, a filler review of the random/scarce pieces of information gathered on the internet about it is in order!

If "south of France" (the bourgeois idleness/holiday destination one as opposed to, for example, street gangs and graffiti) was always a strong underlying theme for the magazine whose first editorial seemed solidly informed by issues raised in a certain lecture, issue O goes all the way uptown and appropriates the untranslated May 2010 editorial piece from L'Officiel Paris, which according to Babelfish casually explains and celebrates a blurring of boundaries between fashion and Hollywood-style celebrity cultures. While the appropriationist gesture nonchalantly suggests that the interpenetration is also happening in art (as other May 2010 editorials also seem to be implying) and that the magazine format in itself might constitute a valid “third way” strategy to casually investigate a not-so-casual biopolitical paradigm, it’s hard to tell what the intentions behind the constant metrosexual/homoerotic subtext-generating going-through-the-motion are in this case (see also: Fantastic Man supplements, Jacques Magazine, Alexander Schroeder...)

A lot of the reprints of 19th century bootlegs finds announced for this issue do promise an anthropologically-tang’d (and maybe even exciting) x-th retrospective in print of the much hyped sources that seem to inform a lot of the work by the better-known artist contributors the editors send emails to, but it would be interesting to see what a generation of young art entrepreneurs surfing the desktop publishing wave in first class makes of the biopolitical new-spirit-of-scene-and-herd-daily struggles their elders –who sometimes happen to teach them art- have been making work about since times way prior to the demise of paperrad's website.

It was once possible to take something out of the real world and introduce it into the art context for scrutiny. How can a fundamentally appropriationist magazine/art project function if its foundations are built on the very ruins of that premiss?

Incest (Art Club 2000, The Runaways, the Jackson 5…?) can sometimes act as a lever capable of enabling clandestine desires to circulate within more mainstream networks, but how much of this aristocratically detached social networking labor actually contributes to such a process rather than a mere connexionist-city jeune homme wet dream as glossy, krebber-via-jonkers knockoff of FMR? What does this brand of elegance capital trade for when it's not adspace or leeway to push difficult forms of cultural production into the spectrum of normality?

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Bjärnë Mëlgäärd, Hot Topic

I wish I could liken Melgaard's work to offensive NSBM/RAC pillars like Absurd, Skrewdriver or the Blue Eyed Devils, in a way that many seem to have done. But I can't, it's art; it's "about" shit, where something like the n-bomb is a provocative citation of "reality" that serves as fodder for the shoah that is contemporary art, for the neoliberal dilettantism that conflates cultural expression with social extremism. Yet what does it mean when so many of Melgaard's collectors and critics interpret his work as "real," as art that is profoundly intimate with its controversial content? Much like a heinous ass like Santiago Sierra, Melgaard offers the "real" in its predictably undesirable form, not dissimilar from the Bud-loving rednecks (note Melgaard's new fav shirt) who constantly besiege the socially normative protagonists in horror flicks like The Hills Have Eyes, Texas Chainsaw Massacre or even Hitchcock's Psycho. The convenient confusion of economically impoverished social worlds as traumatic signifiers of psychopolitical reality is a consensual hallucination that has far too long been unquestioned by art's trans-metropolitan discourse. An art patron who collects affected painters like André Butzer and Jonathan Meese may endow Melgaard's social hallucinations as connotative of some reality "realer" than the contemporary art world's. Or a writer for Texte zur Kunst may cynically observe Melgaard's militant "psychosocial" expressivity—the mean-spirited insecurity that revels in the subjection of others—as the "hard truth" of contemporary art's convivial glosses.

Yet both apprehensions of Melgaard's work leave unchallenged the lack of responsibility that is the by-product of his insecurity-fueled prowess; the victim who refines their victimhood into an expressive technology synchronous with the machinations of mainstream cultural production. This is rather than, say, re-performing this victimhood as a critical platform for exploring alternative social and economic valuations—which is possible without making "Manifesta art." Melgaard's cultural war against the heteronormative social values of the Obama age is the same cultural war waged by the media industries who build retail markets around anti-social behavior, self-mutilation, parental-advisory stickers and eating disorders, industries who refined the Helms-era controversies of Kathy Acker and Ron Athey into the Bush-era lifestyle stores of Spencer Gifts and Hot Topic. This is why I can't link Melgaard's provocations to the ultraconservative forms of (sub-)cultural production, like the actual hate of Angry Aryans or Afrikankorps (or even the antagonistic posturing of the Frogs or Boyd Rice), but rather to the market-friendly tantrums of Slipknot or Jeffree Star, artists who are latter-day billboards for the age-old refinery of shocking subjectivites into desirable (primarily youth) lifestyles; artists who are veritable "kid-whore" manufacturers. No wonder Semiotext(e) didn't publish Melgaard's novel, like these two musical acts, it sounds terrible.

What is hate when its communicative vector is synchronized with an economy of limitless capital, rather than a subcultural hate whose communion is limited by capital scarcity? That mainstream coverage of these hateful acts is relegated to a journalistic documentation of this music's political criminality rather than the thoughtful cultural analysis granted to an artist like Melgaard gives a clear indication that whatever Melgaard's hate-laced "politics" are, they require quotation marks.

ps If you're looking for a "good" time read Sotos and forget Bjarne of Norway...

Thursday, May 13, 2010

problem solvers!


DAS INSTITUT My Favorite Artworks As Cakes Baking Workshop

Opening: May 6, 6 pm

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

the world has turned and left me here...

Sod & Sodie Sock Comp OSO: The Sequel?

Sure, it's missing the power electronics soundtrack and it ain't "de-sublimated" but hell ain't it just as disturbing? That Abu Ghraib seasoning sure leaves a funny feeling in stomach as "deep in the night/i'm looking for some fun/oooh my ding ding dong" seems to communicate a far greater perversity thanks to this given context than this karaoke'd novelty song probably ever intended. Hmm, paging Guyotat for his IMOs re: the questionable joys of homosocial bonding...

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

PS1 Greater NY

—And out of the kennel, onto the track. Or, hmmm... it was the best of times, it was the worst of times? Expect commentary some day.

Michele Abeles, David Adamo, Ei Arakawa, An Atlas of Radical Cartography, Tauba Auerbach, Darren Bader, Kerstin Brätsch, David Brooks, The Bruce High Quality Foundation, Leidy Churchman, Deville Cohen, Brody Condon, Caleb Considine, William Cordova, Delusional Downtown Divas (Joana Avillez, Lena Dunham, Isabel Halley), DETEXT, Debo Eilers, Franklin Evans, LaToya Ruby Frazier, Zipora Fried, Daniel Gordon, Tamar Halpern, K8 Hardy, Tommy Hartung, Sharon Hayes, Vlatka Horvat, Matt Hoyt, Alex Hubbard, Alisha Kerlin, Liz Magic Laser, Deana Lawson, Leigh Ledare, Dani Leventhal, Kalup Linzy, Tala Madani, Nick Mauss, Ryan McNamara, Dave Miko, Amir Mogharabi, Sam Moyer, Nico Muhly, Rashaad Newsome, Dominic Nurre, Brian O’Connell, Alice O’Malley, Virginia Overton, Adam Pendleton, Maria Petschnig, Zak Prekop, Ishmael Randall Weeks, Gilad Ratman, Lucy Raven, Robbinschilds, Mariah Robertson, Adele Röder, Emily Roysdon, Aki Sasamoto, David Benjamin Sherry, Erin Shirreff, Xaviera Simmons, A.L. Steiner, Elisabeth Subrin, Hank Willis Thomas, Naama Tsabar, Guido van der Werve, Conrad Ventur, Amy Yao, Pinar Yolacan

Monday, April 26, 2010


While I am breaking the oath I swore to myself not to sully AOWJM's wicked musk with IMHOs en faveur de Deitch but after downing a few artisanal pints with a former colleague this past weekend, I saw the light, er... well, at least the invisible "everything must go" sign glowing grail-like through the Avalonian mists slowly enshrouding Soho's king of kings and his palace of wonders. 50-75% discounts? More? Is it possible to acquire a Borofsky and a Paperrad installation at the same value as a Lauren for Ralph Lauren 2-piece? Will I be able to "dumpster dive" on June 1st and find not only VG/VG++ Jim Isermann wall fixtures but also Mariko Mori's monumental "lady essence stick"? Is it too late to exchange Barry McGee "paintings" for Tauba Auerbach "paintings"? What was the Meth Lab's carbon footprint? Oh, what about the Josh Smith LIC show collecting dust and silverfish? Oh, that's free.

“I’m glad that the recession is over”

Sometimes the stars align and a collaboration happens that is then covered by scene and herd and written about in a way that way transcends gonzo. In this regard, yesterday's fucked-up post about GAGAKOH! is all the more humbling for us at AOWJM. I read it twice, couldn't concentrate either time! Lady Gaga plays a show, Koh raps, there's MAC cosmetics employees in the room, picture of one-legged fan, CG is in town shooting a video, gets the email, shows up w/ cool cane...

ps: full vids on the author's sva blog

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Bruno Brunnet of BB Fine Arts and CFA Berlin fame is opening a French/Deitch-themed new space in time for gallery weekend. Deeper in Charlottenburg FTW! Will it be more "fun" than CFA? Is a casual, wood-frame-not-necessary policy to be enforced? Will there be a couch, a pinball machine? What will the security guards wear? How much cheaper for the cab ride to Paris Bar?

Saturday, April 17, 2010


The Berlin gallery weekend is soon!

While I am really sincerely excited about 3 days of partying kicked off by May Day riots that will hopefully be less faggy than last year's, it really seems that the only exciting thing on the menu (is Schleim out of touch?) is what sounds like a big-ass Andreas Gursky exhibition at Sprueth Magers.

"while flying one night from Dubai to Melbourne as I stared for some time at the flight monitor: the Horn of Africa to the far left, a tip of Australia to the far right – and there in between the blue void. Then all of a sudden I saw the graphic representation on the monitor as a picture. "

"Gursky used high-definition satellite photographs which he augmented from various picture sources on the Internet."

The GWB, however, could really use a brand identity/graphic design overhaul. If Boros' img-less, Bahaus-2004 no-fun work for the flyer aims at creating a neutral umbrella background allowing for the different galeries involved to shine on their own, it omits the crucial fact that GWB is all about p.tay, mayne!

Daniel broing down with FDP voter Ulf Poschardt
afterparty jungle-cat JK broing down with non-bro
off air!