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?