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...