Rahel Aima


    Curated by Sophia Marisa Lucas

    Blackness and blueness are intimately entwined in America. There are so many blue screens of death. The tension between the two, between black visibility and the violence of surveillance, forms the foundation of American Artist’s practice. The artist’s change to their legal name, meanwhile, grants them anonymity even as it works to overwrite art history, to make the default American artist black. Technology, like humans, inherits all the prejudices of its precursors. American Artist’s second institutional solo show will extend their consideration of systemic bias

  • diary July 25, 2019

    Counter Culture

    “IT’S AN INTERESTING MOMENT FOR REGIONALISM,” writer-curator Leah Triplett Harrington remarked one night at dinner. We were catching a breather after Nic Kay’s moving, sinuous concluding procession through the predominantly black and Latinx neighborhood that hosted the inaugural edition of Saint Louis’s Counterpublic triennial. A ravey closing party followed in the stained-glass church turned punk club that housed Cauleen Smith’s Sky Will Learn Sky, a stunning video and banner installation. Harrington was referring to the spate of new biennials in American cities such as Cleveland, Atlanta, and

  • Abul Hisham

    The mostly pastel-on-paper paintings in Abul Hisham’s “Recitation” are full of narratives presented in medias res. On a small, scrubby island in Recitation 3 (all works cited, 2018), a snake coils around a tombstone. Its head disappears into the accordion-pleated murkiness that stands in for both sea and sky; its tail tapers to an elegant figure eight. Recitation 5—A hundred lights depicts the same grave, but water levels have risen, and we seemed to be observing it from the mouth of a cave, behind a screen of incense sticks. The works invoke a pair of eschatological Islamic concepts, the barzakh

  • picks April 18, 2019

    Mohamed Ahmed Ibrahim

    The sleepy port town of Khor Fakkan nestles into a sliver of land curving along the Gulf of Oman, where mountain meets sea. There are no sunsets there. The craggy Hajar range dominates the bay and blocks off afternoon light, leaching the city of color. Mohamed Ahmed Ibrahim responds to this diurnal grayscaling with a number of black-and-white papier-mâché works, clustered on one wall, whose blocky grids invoke the building facades of an overcast Khor Fakkan evening. The show’s title, “The Space Between the Eyelid and the Eyeball,” gestures as much to solar afterimages as to Ibrahim’s hometown,

  • Brian Belott

    If—or, rather, when—the next ice age comes, it might look a lot like Brian Belott’s exhibition at the Chinatown, New York, space of Gavin Brown’s Enterprise. In this show, three industrial freezers—each Untitled, 2018, and parked in a back room of the gallery—housed a number of rectangular assemblages made from materials as disparate as mixing cups (arrayed in a rather vulvar way), hair gel, a hand massager, a weight from a grandfather clock, Jelly Bellies, and an abacus. Because the objects were vertically suspended and encased in ice, form gave way to brightly saturated color. The room was

  • picks November 02, 2018

    Stuart Davis

    Blue jeans, jazz, 1930s America; sailors and signage in New York’s Times Square, the stench of fish rolling off the river, and the plaintive sound of a trumpet snaking through the air. Stuart Davis, of course, was at the center of it all. But the artist’s pictures here aren’t the exuberant, hot canvases of his retrospective that took place at the Whitney Museum in 2016. This exhibition of spare, mostly black-and-white drawings and paintings, hung against smoky blue walls, features almost no color at all. Bebop drummer Art Blakey comes to mind—he said that “jazz washes away the dust of everyday

  • Daphne Fitzpatrick

    Last year, I slipped on a banana peel while walking down the street. Just a little lurching wobble: I was actually more incredulous than hurt. It’s the stuff of vaudeville, slapstick: the kind of event you think could never actually happen in real life—until it does. Daphne Fitzpatrick’s “3 Dollar Bill,” full of such moments, destabilized the viewer in much the same way. One-liners abounded, with plenty of objects that Acme would have proudly listed in its catalogue: a slice of Swiss cheese (is there any other type in cartoons?) made from beeswax and cantilevered on a rare buffalo nickel, a


    In 1947, the sun finally set on the British Raj. In the same year, a group of leftists, including luminaries such as M. F. Husain, S. H. Raza, and F. N. Souza, founded the influential Progressive Artists’ Group. This fall at New York’s Asia Society, the revolutionary Bombay Progressives and their followers will anchor a landmark survey of more than eighty works accompanied by an illustrated catalogue. The Progressives insisted on a break both with tradition—Mughal miniatures and courtly paintings; vernacular, tribal, and folk art—and with empire to forge


    THE FUNNY THING about ships is that you have to weigh them down to keep them afloat. Historically, stones, soil, sand, wood, and bricks placed inside a ship’s hull have provided this weight. At the end of a voyage, the ballast is dumped, to be repurposed as building materials or to settle as soil. It becomes a pedological archive: A portion of the ground beneath Manhattan’s FDR Drive is built from the rubble of British buildings demolished during World War II; the area came to be known as Bristol Basin. Meanwhile, Liverpudlian stones that were a by-product of the trans-atlantic cotton and tobacco

  • picks May 18, 2018

    Ivy Haldeman and Douglas Rieger

    Ivy Haldeman’s voyeuristic paintings take a joke—all those pairs of hotdog legs extruded onto Instagram beaches—and pull it even further. Her anthropomorphized hotdogs experiment with “lifestyle” prosthetics. They read a book before falling asleep on it, cradle a bananaphone, and daub cream onto a shapely calf. They’re wearing nude pumps and recline in pillowy buns like a Vienna Beef in furs. When their hands—or, rather, knotted serpentine tangles of arms—aren’t tied, as they are in the piece Long Arm, Loop, Half Knot, Coin (all works cited, 2018), they’re holding the flaccid noodle of a cigarette,

  • picks April 06, 2018

    Quay Quinn Wolf

    Do you ever think about the way we archive the human body after death? We wash and disinfect it and break down the rigor mortis. We suture the mouth shut and artificially aspirate the organs, filling the arteries and cavities with fluid to stem the tide of decay. Bodies that were so far apart in life come together in the ground.

    When Quay Quinn Wolf was a child, his mother studied mortuary science. After-school conversations about formaldehyde and casket selection have been translated into six sculptural works that intimate the body in its absence. But here, flowers stand in for flesh. Fluid-filled

  • picks February 01, 2018

    Abir Karmakar

    “Home is so sad,” Philip Larkin wrote in 1958. “It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back.” The large-scale oil paintings in Abir Karmakar’s exhibition “Displacement” capture the timbre of one such household, an Indian family’s, with aching precision. Largely freestanding upon wooden supports, the hyperrealistic canvases create trompe l’oeil rooms within the gallery even as they gesture to the way we stage domestic backdrops for our own lives. The specificities of Indian decor are typified in astonishing detail. Here are the Hindu gods and

  • slant December 08, 2017

    On the Ground: Dubai

    DO YOU REMEMBER THE DIALUP HANDSHAKE? Numbers being punched, assorted squeal-y gurgling, a series of high and low tones, and then the extended white noise? Dubai’s past decade of overtures towards the international art world felt a lot like this. The initial plaintive trilling gave way to a charging, moneyed insistence familiar to anyone on the global art circuit. We’ve finally logged on, and now it’s time to turn inward for phase two.

    In the mid-2000s, I would drive past a massive billboard hugging the side of the highway. It depicted a rendering of a new downtown development with scooped-out

  • picks May 02, 2017

    “Artist Run New York: The Seventies”

    America has never been hard to see in the Gulf, but until recently, its artists have been. Save for the odd institutional retrospective of works from overseas, Dubai’s art scene has mostly been dominated by the regional and the contemporary. The city predicates its self-mythology on a fetishization of the new (newer! newest!), and galleries follow suit. Yet just as decades of rapid expansion have given way to an embrace of infill architecture, so too has the art world begun to look backward, with a spate of historical—particularly Western-focused—shows. With a multidisciplinary approach that

  • diary March 20, 2017

    Real Surreal

    “IT’S SOMEWHERE BETWEEN a craft fair and gun show. Doesn’t it feel that way?” an artist observed, watching VIPs gamely shuffling to lackluster beats at the after party for Art Dubai’s Tuesday preview. The cash bar left many reminiscing about the heady nights, just a few fairs ago, of free-flowing libations and late, late fetes on the beach.

    Several attendees were heard wishing the DJ would play some Arabic “or at least Turkish” music. People from the region wanted to actually dance. As for those parachuting in from farther away (their numbers were up), were they not in Dubai precisely to carouse,

  • picks March 07, 2017

    Sophia Al-Maria

    In Sophia Al-Maria’s exhibition “EVERYTHING MUST GO,” the Gulf is presented not as a poreless luxury or futurist rendering, but rather as a teeming hypermarket. The artist mines a territory of frenzied consumerism similar to that depicted in her powerful installation at the Whitney last fall, yet here the dark, eschatological terror of that show is sanitized, and images of the Gulf are sold back to it, with markup.

    The thing about Gulf futurism is that it requires some distance from its source. It’s most seductive abroad, tending toward banality when reimported. Looped in a deadened side room,

  • picks December 08, 2016

    Raja’a Khalid

    A sharp intimacy suffuses Dubai-based Pakistani artist Raja’a Khalid’s show like the warmth of late afternoon sunlight. Reflections bounce off the iridescent automotive-paint-coated panels of High Noon (all works 2016), where tangerine gives way to deep orange, and Santa Barbara, which itself is seafoam but casts onto the floor a lurid green. Perhaps donning the US military-issue Oakleys set on a dune-textured altar of a shelf in sun and sand worship, or the bomber jacket, Solaro, would shield one from the light. Made from the titular suiting fabric, the latter’s underside is shot through with