Tom Moody

  • Nina Katchadourian

    Nina Katchadourian’s recent work, documented in photographs and videotapes, consists of trivial or inept “repairs” to flora and fauna, suggesting the efforts of a clueless (if well-intentioned) field biologist. In Renovated Mushroom (Tip-Top Tire Rubber Patch Kit) (all works 1998), the naturally occurring cracks on mushroom surfaces have been fixed with multicolored tire patches, converting the caps into ridiculous-looking polka-dotted tuffets; in Transplant, a plant’s missing leaves have been replaced with membranous insect wings, restoring its symmetry but turning it into a part-animal,

  • Ross Knight

    Ross Knight’s recent exhibition drew on influences spanning the socioeconomic spectrum: the emptied-out, less-is-more design of a tony, Minimalist-inspired loft; the lightweight, portable architecture of the corporate trade show; and the sloppy, catch-as-catch-can facture of the homeless encampment. The artist’s boxy, maquette-like constructions of corrugated vinyl sheeting, held together with Velcro or fastened onto armatures of aluminum piping, come in an array of basic shapes—rectangular solids, vertical planes, a prism standing on edge—all assembled as crudely as possible and adorned with

  • Georg Herold

    The title of Georg Herold’s recent exhibition was a mouthful of cyberspeak—“compu.comp.virtual visualities.equivacs.bitmapdyes”—but anyone lured by this pidgin html into expecting a deep artistic investigation of the Web was in for a disappointment, since the show went no further than the graphic interface, the familiar sight that greets you when you turn on your computer. Stripes of concentrated watercolor on large sheets of photographic paper recalled the palettes of digital tool bars (or their low-tech cousins, paint samples from Home Depot), and strings of suspended wood blocks

  • Carl D'Alvia

    Carl D’Alvia’s life-size plaster statues conjure an inspiring vision: The family that slays together stays together. “Dad” is a hulking brute in superhero garb who sits like Rodin’s Thinker, contemplating the high-powered machine gun grafted to his forearm (Bad Guy, 1997). “Mom,” a caped, spandexed hard-body with ten Shiva-like arms (Ms. Trouble, 1998), raises her own Gatling-gun prostheses in a cubistic reenactment of Robert De Niro’s Taxi Driver “You talkin’ to me?” routine. And between them “Junior”—a cyberdog with video-camera eye, external-hard-drive brain, and shoulder-mounted

  • Garry Gross

    Fashion photographer Garry Gross had the idea, back in the freewheeling ’70s, of doing an arty piece about “the woman within the child,” to capture the “flirtatiousness” and “coquettishness” he observed in little girls. He hired an exceptionally lovely Ford model, age ten, and, after obtaining a release from her mother, photographed the tyke nude in a bathtub, decked out in makeup and jewelry and adopting a variety of slinky poses. For all their supposed playfulness, the photographs had the trappings of a standard soft-core porn shoot—billowing steam, spritzing shower head, telephone by

  • Rebecca Quaytman

    Like a three-dimensional CD-Rom that substituted walking and looking for pointing and clicking, Rebecca Quaytman's exhibition abounded in links among and cross-references between the works, a line of hard-edged abstractions interspersed with photographs silkscreened onto wood panels. With its artworks, images of artworks, and images of people viewing artworks, the show was a sort of sustained inquiry on the subject of looking.

    Quaytman is particularly attentive to how the gallery space influences the way we read what's on view. Near the entrance, the viewer found a blue monochrome, Going Here,

  • Howard Schwartzberg

    In Howard Schwartzberg’s recent exhibition, paint acquires mass and volume and turns into a “thing,” an entity somewhere between post-Minimalist sculpture and B-movie prop. In Electric Lime (all works 1997), a bathtub’s worth of lime-green latex seems to fill an enormous burlap sack partially affixed to the wall. Expanding over the rim of the bag, the paint has hardened into a level surface suggesting a horizontal monochrome. Against an adjacent wall, a thick cerulean slab with a burlap rind titled A Quarter Cold Blue hugs the baseboards as if trying to make itself as inconspicuous as possible.

  • Michael Phelan

    Michael Phelan’s exhibition “Bel-Aqua” invited us to contemplate a range of products that might best be described as implacably middlebrow: concentric flowerpots, a faux-granite water cooler, and a wall of blue spring-water bottles. These were interspersed in the coolly elegant installation among freestanding structures made of synthetic materials (Styrofoam planks, tubular shelving, plastic two-by-fours) that evoked swimming pools and exercise equipment, all amplifying the aquatic motif.

    Several sculptures incorporate pale turquoise panels reminiscent of John McCracken’s flawless fiberglass

  • Devon Dikeou

    Art about the art world is practically a genre unto itself, and a fairly limited one. We’ve seen paintings of art gallery advertisements, drawings of museum floor plans, bar graphs tabulating the output of famous Abstract Expressionists, and in Houston several years ago, a room full of large canvases with artists’ resumes silkscreened onto them, by a conceptualist named Mark Flood. Devon Dikeou’s recent installation, a series of signboards recording every group show she has participated in since 1991, resembled Flood’s, but had a formal obsessiveness that threatened to lift it out of this cozy

  • Max Estenger

    Max Estenger’s recent exhibition was heavy on the one-liners: a framed announcement for Dan Flavin’s installation at the Calvin Klein store, equipped with a fluorescent “painting light”; an inflatable ottoman stuffed with a shredded Bible; aluminum panels imprinted with photos of Ted Kazcynski’s cabin and Harry Helmsley’s crypt. In Great Looking Hair (GLH Formula) (all works 1997), a line of clear plastic, wall-mounted domes conjured the space-age Minimalism of Donald Judd or Larry Bell, but the monochromatic earth colors (black, light brown, auburn, silver, and so on) coating the insides of

  • Denyse Thomasos

    Using a flat brush an inch or so in width, Denyse Thomasos applies bands of thinned-down acrylic paint to canvas in a relentless crisscrossing motion, building up dense, kaleidoscopic records of the process. The hatching is loose and gestural in her small-scale works, but as the paintings become larger (up to 10 by 16 feet), the grids grow stiffer, even volumetric, suggesting rows of stylized buildings. Some of her lines are uncannily straight, as if made by a monomaniacal sign painter, while others are erratic, leaving drips that complicate (and energize) the skewed cubic forms.

    Compared to

  • Michael Smith and Joshua White

    In this exhaustively detailed, tragicomic installation, collaborators Michael Smith and Joshua White transformed the gallery into an office and showroom for MUSCO (pronounced “muse-co”), a once-thriving lighting business now headed for Chapter II. As explained in a promotional video running continuously on the “sales floor,” the fictional company supplied equipment for psychedelic light shows in the ’60s, “responded to the needs of the burgeoning disco culture” in the ’70s, then adapted its products to the corporate setting in the ’80s. Sadly, items such as the “loft lamp” and “interior/exterior

  • Bill Davenport

    In this recent exhibition Bill Davenport placed an assortment of small, quirky objects around the gallery—a tinfoil starfish, various readymade ephemera, needlepoints sporting motifs ranging from early Modernist to early Atari—with an extreme attention to detail. Occupying walls, floors, and custom-built shelves, the pieces enjoyed space and lighting worthy of a museum show, a treatment at odds with their cheerfully slipshod facture—wool needlepoints hanging unstretched and out-of-square, woodwork that would barely earn a “C” in shop class—and palette of bright, happy colors (especially pink,

  • William Wood

    In his grisaille, abstract paintings (all works 1996), William Wood manipulates liquid oil paint with fingers and found objects to create furrows, blobs, and convoluted planes that simulate photographic depth (including subtle touches of reflected light) but retain their character as drips and trails of paint. A curling stroke resembling David Reed’s becomes a Piranesian space; a dragged, Richteresque surface appears convex, like a melting ice floe or globs of mercury. Other canvases suggest cells and body tissues viewed through an electron microscope.

    According to a recent catalogue essay by

  • Randy Wray

    In previous exhibitions, Randy Wray’s pastiches of abstract motifs, lowbrow images, and homespun crafts (needlepoint, cake decorating, macaroni painting) seemed gratuitously chaotic, as if the artist couldn’t decide what to leave out. In his most recent show, he isolated specific images and techniques in paintings that are leaner and more elegant. Although the show included a number of large works, its focal point was an eye-popping, wall-sized grid composed of thirty-six 20-by-16-inch canvases.

    Across the expanse of the grid (which becomes a kind of megapainting), certain motifs recur: vibrantly

  • Richard Phillips

    In his recent series of confidently worked oil paintings, Richard Phillips enlarges images of women found in ’70s fashion glossies to enormous scale, some more than six feet tall. While Phillips occasionally flirts with the issues of the “male gaze” and the sexual hard sell with these giant headshots, his treatment of them is more haunted than voyeuristic. In fact, the fashion archetypes of twentysome years ago—the cropped-top ingenue who might or might not be Twiggy, the stringy-haired flower child, the Charlie’s Angels wannabe in aviator shades—become strangely creepy in Phillips’ paintings:

  • Barbara Gallucci

    For the past several years Barbara Gallucci has worked primarily with commercially fabricated carpet in her installations of variable dimensions. Wryly making analogies between Minimalist sculpture—particularly Robert Morris’ felt pieces—and office-building culture, she turns a passive, downtrodden material into an aggressive architectural element that rolls across floors at odd angles, climbs up walls, or hangs from ceilings in giant loops while mapping the parallels between Minimalism and kitschy commercial design. Unlike the classics of Minimalist sculpture, which attempted to maintain a

  • Mark Dagley

    Mark Dagley has long explored the language of painting by playing with both surfaces and supports. He has made torqued monochromes, eccentric shaped canvases, paintings with blocks cut out of them, and wall sculptures of exposed stretcher bars, all with a characteristically wry sensibility. His most recent series of paintings represents something of a departure. Though he continues to raise questions about painting, he now does so without breaking it down into its constituent parts.

    Combining the flat colors and taped-canvas edges of the Washington Color School (Gene Davis, Kenneth Noland, and

  • Sybil Andrews

    The British linocut movement, led by artist Claude Flight, a teacher at the Grosvenor School of Modern Art in London, took shape in the wake of World War I. Inspired by Flight’s view of the linoleum block print as a populist medium, a group of artists began producing ingenious woodcutlike designs that drew on Art Deco and Italian Futurism. Unlike the Vorticists of the ’teens, who worked primarily in an abstract vein, the linocut artists depicted recognizable, popular subjects—straphangers in the London underground, scenes of the British countryside, and sporting events. The movement flourished

  • Jennifer Kobylarz

    In paintings that bring to mind Stuart Davis, Matisse cutouts, and ’50s bachelor-pad ambience, Jenifer Kobylarz takes a recurring motif (a sort of anthropomorphic fern) through a series of punning transformations, stretching, layering, or otherwise mutating the subject into a variety of images (spinal column, zipper, chainsaw, piano keys) that nevertheless manage to retain the fern’s segmented structure. Varying in composition from bold and heraldic to busy and allover, some of the pieces explore the interplay of figure and ground—for example, Red Spine, 1995, can be read as either a rib cage