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“The Finger that Shows the Moon Never Moons”

Dan Gunn
Schlesische Strasse 29, Street front, 3rd Floor
April 22, 2017–June 25, 2017

View of “The Finger that Shows the Moon Never Moons,” 2017. From left: Apichatpong Weerasethakul, The Vapor of Melancholy, 2014; Susanne Winterling, Untitled (The pressure behind your nailcolour, my dear), 2009.

Amid political turmoil, we might look to the moon to galvanize our struggle for a better present, or simply for aid in leaving it all behind. The exhibition “The Finger that Shows the Moon Never Moons” brings together eight artists along with their drives and escapisms.

The moon in question might be Renato Leotta’s Aprile, 2017, a disk covered in black volcanic sand hung just above eye level. Flat and unspectacular, the plaster plate is insufficient in representing the celestial body, but it toys with a theatrical register in its willful yet ironic invitation to suspend disbelief. A similar theme carries over in Rodrigo Hernández’s prop-like Super Position, 2016, a piece of outdated, perhaps Cold War–era technology modeled in cardboard. With childish pretense, the work insists on belonging to a parallel universe—however, even here the tarnish of history endures.

Meanwhile, in The Vapor of Melancholy, 2014, a back-lit photograph by Apichatpong Weerasethakul, play takes an existential turn. A young man lies on a bed, his hand in a dainty bend, as he breathes out a cloud of smoke in a rain of superimposed fireworks. His blissful high troubles the mood of the title, evoking the ambivalence in escaping only to inevitably return.

Susanne Winterling’s glass prints of phosphorescent algae share in this urge for the otherworldly. Crossover Planetary Algae Empire (for Octavia Butler), 2017, shows the organism lit up by a spotlight, imbuing the green-blue shape with a mesmerizing dimensionality. Dedicated to the famous science-fiction writer, Winterling’s work abandons the Anthropocene for life under different moons.

Kristian Vistrup Madsen

Caleb Considine

Galerie Buchholz | Berlin
Fasanenstraße 30
April 28, 2017–July 29, 2017

Caleb Considine, Whitney (profile), 2017, oil on canvas, 15 x 12 x 1".

There’s something unsettling about freshly made, nearly Photorealist paintings in a contemporary art gallery. These days, it seems a truism that such painstaking renderings risk artistic obsolescence, if not cultural conservatism. Caleb Considine’s exhibition of small oil paintings featuring fastidiously depicted objects and visages, eggshell smooth factures, and faintly limned outlines, impassively court this judgment. In Trestle (all works cited, 2017), the girders of a train bridge cut steep angles across a canvas. The bleached green iron is streaked with rust and draws attention to shadows receding toward a sky-blue plywood wall.

To some, the artist’s work might seem like an obsequious appeal to middlebrow taste. Fortunately, his aberrant devotion to technique, combined with the almost aggressive banality of his subjects, produces a fascinating, repellent steeliness. A haunting vacancy (mostly) saves Considine’s images from the abyss of populism. To look at Whitney (profile) is to feel an uncomfortable tugging sensation in the upper chest—the model’s posture and subtly exaggerated features seem to convert her into a hollow icon. The painter’s weakness lies close to the effects of his technique—under his brush, women are suspended in a cliché melancholy, between vacuity and contemplation. A similar coolness hangs over Uzumaki/Jarritos, an image of stacked books dominated by white, except for patches of color emitted by yellowed pages, the book jackets, and a nearby soda bottle. At their best, such pictures occupy the overlap between real experience and eerie simulacrum.

Mitch Speed

Shirana Shahbazi

KINDL – Centre for Contemporary Art
Am Sudhaus 3
April 2, 2017–August 6, 2017

Shirana Shahbazi, [Frucht-03-2007] (Fruit-03-2007), C-print on aluminum, 47 x 59".

While hardly anyone still believes in photography’s claim to truth these days, the medium continues to renew its promise of authenticity. The contention that images, identities, and worlds are constructed has long been evident––even analog photography has for some time now had to account for it. Rather than clinging to that discussion, Shirana Shahbazi’s pictures take as their point of departure the material world, never completely breaking away from their relationship to objects. In this exhibition, thirty-five photographs are seemingly displayed at random, but each’s presentation is deliberate and should be perceived as such. Within the disparate arrangement and heterogeneous imagery, there are still lifes of extreme artificiality and simplicity, including [Frucht-03-2007] (Fruit-03-2007) and [Magnolie-04-2013] (Magnolia-04-2013), as well as examples of geometric abstraction—[Objekt-25-2013] (Object-25-2013) and [Kreise-02-2014] (Circles-02-2014).

Elsewhere are two-tone lithographs of fleeting landscapes and vistas of travel, such as [Wellen] (Waves) and [Wüste] (Desert), both 2014. In the case of the abstract [Raster-01-2013] (Grid-01-2013), a reduction is achieved alongside the creation of a complex play between the impression of flatness and space. Shahbazi’s photographs are all marked by their disparate nature: The images feel controlled, improvised, logical, and baffling all at once. This show can be taken as ironic and, at the same time, as an expression of radical rigor. What is chiefly important here is equivalence, the illusion of classification, and freedom from hierarchy.

Translated from German by Diana Reese.

Melissa Canbaz

Nicholas Mangan

KW Institute for Contemporary Art
Auguststrasse 69
June 2, 2017–August 13, 2017

Nicholas Mangan, Limits to Growth, 2016–2017, bitcoin mining rig, Raspberry Pi 3 computer, screen, plotter, metal shelves, ink-jet prints, 2 HD videos (color, sound, 2 minutes 29 seconds and 3 minutes 5 seconds), dimensions variable. Installation view.

Nicholas Mangan’s four video installations explore the overlapping disciplines of economics, geology, ecology, and colonial history, presenting a portrait of a world riven by human intervention but elusive when it comes to humanity’s efforts to understand it. A World Undone, 2012, the simplest and most powerful of the works on display, depicts a churning vortex of golden particles that fall slowly out of view. The whirling specks are Zircon particles, 4.4-billion-year-old crystalline mites that were produced by the formation of earth’s tectonic plates. The video, which eschews the complicated interrelation of industrial objects and the moving image, is emblematic of the artist’s practice, representing a vision of geological time that is both spellbinding and dread-inducing for its suggestion that mankind has an imminent expiration date.

The exhibition’s titular installation, Limits to Growth, 2016–17, examines the shifting value of monetary currency as it is beset by radical historical change. A high-definition printer continuously spits out photographs of the discontinued Micronesian currency known as rai—gargantuan stone disks carved from boulders. Originally produced by the inhabitants of the island of Yap, the value of the rai was derived not only from the size of a given piece but also the labor involved in obtaining it. Following colonial intervention in 1871, new technology was introduced that expedited the production of rai, leading to oversupply and rampant inflation. As Mangan’s piece discharges seemingly endless images of the coinage, an offsite computer simultaneously generates Bitcoin, registered as a mounting stockpile on each ink-jet print. Here, complex systems of representation intersect, demonstrating the precarious historical contingency of wealth and value.

Dan Jakubowski

Ester Fleckner

Barbara Wien
Schöneberger Ufer 65, 3rd Floor
July 8, 2017–August 26, 2017

View of “Ester Fleckner: All Models Are Wrong, Some Are Useful,” 2017.

Like a frustrated poet’s crumpled up sheets of paper, Ester Fleckner’s sculptures litter the floor of the gallery. But where the poet chases perfection, this artist does the opposite: Her concrete polyhedrons twist and turn into bumps of irregular pyramids, as if in defiance of precision.

Part of a series titled “All Models Are Wrong, Some Are Useful,” 2017, each sculpture was cast from paper models based on the shapes presented in woodcuts on paper, which are installed along the walls. Drawings were transferred to the wood, and their lines are not straight, but bent, even queer. The idiosyncratic outlines look like pieces of land or strange animals, resulting in forms that emphasize the multifaceted nature of identity, as well as its profound instability. With instructions to “cut and fold,” a note written in pencil on the sixth print in the series names the relation between the mediums, but looking at them, there has already been more than a little slippage; through one more transformation, their kinship could become completely abstract.

The series stems “from the desire to crip arrivals,” according to another scribble in the margin of the same woodcut above, further betraying the pseudo-scientific surface of the presentation. Using a term normally used within disability studies, much like queer, to subvert abusive language, here the artist “cripples” geometric shapes to deconstruct what makes a durable or whole object. To return to the analogy of the poet, what are the standards by which we keep or crumple? This is a question of power and normativity, which Fleckner handles with both humor and formal sophistication.

Kristian Vistrup Madsen

Adrian Piper

Hamburger Bahnhof
Invalidenstraße 50-51
February 24, 2017–September 3, 2017

Adrian Piper, The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3, 2013–. Installation view.

When speaking with former residents of East Germany, it’s not uncommon to hear stories of deceit, such as family and friends spying on one another in service to the state. Given that history, knotty questions are raised when an American artist’s installation asks visitors to question their trust in oneself and others. This is the provocation made by The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3, 2013–, an installation from Adrian Piper, who has lived in Berlin since 2005, after being placed on the United States’ list of “suspicious travelers.”

In this museum’s cavernous main hall, three towering walls have been installed, each footed by a curved desk. Here sit museum attendants, who guide visitors through electronic contracts demanding nearly impossible commitments: “I will always mean what I say,” “I will always be too expensive to buy,” “I will always do what I say I am going to do.” Following the show, a list of the signatories will be kept by the institution, as well as distributed to the participants. While Piper’s early work used public performances to disturb common expectations of propriety, this piece converts the audience into a collective performer, tasked with self-scrutiny.

Though her work is grounded in extensive philosophical study, this piece cuts into the gap between ideals and reality. Most people would love to be “too expensive to buy.” Unfortunately, economic pressure and normalized state surveillance often make such integrity untenable. Piper’s gesture thus tangles a fantasy––solidarity between the righteous––with a more realistic picture of a kinship based in ethical compromise. As a social experiment, this work is a little didactic, even patronizing. But its implications are crucial. Within late capitalism, the boundary between choice and coercion is at best elusive, and at worst an illusion.

Mitch Speed

“From the Aesthetic of Administration”

Centrum
Reuterstr. 7
August 11, 2017–September 17, 2017

View of “From the Aesthetic of Administration,” 2017.

How do you envisage the aesthetics of administration? Early morning light, a wood-veneer desk, perhaps tea in a chipped mug? Conceptual artist Joshua Schwebel seeks to examine art from a structural perspective for this exhibition, which could be mistaken for a dowdy office. The show began as an email (a copy of which is pinned to the wall here), sent by Schwebel to Berlin’s arts-funding administration, the Senatsverwaltung für Kultur und Europa (Senate Administration for Culture and Europe), inviting its staff to produce artworks for his show. He received only two positive responses, from Pauline Püschel (who studied cultural management) and Anne Wesolek (a trained art historian).

Püschel’s ironic sculptural installation—Limits (all works 2017)—asks viewers to sit at a desk (sourced from the senate’s basement) and use a computer program that reproduces the daily processes of a funding administrator. If you press a button “agreeing” to fund a project, you can then write a speech about why, and print and file it alphabetically. For her part, Wesolek took a series of photographs, “Inside Brunnenstraße,” depicting her colleagues’ offices, revealing the inner cavity of an organization that is usually invisible to the public and mainly comprises white walls, files, mugs, stacks of paper, artworks, posters, graph-paper charts, and pens—exactly what you might expect, bringing the stereotype to life.

Interrogating the value of art in its various dimensions—from market potential to funding viability, or how it comes to bear on labor—Schwebel encourages a critical reflection on the role that civic bodies play in what can actually be produced and the aesthetic signifiers of a bureaucracy that often sculpts artists’ livelihoods.

Louisa Elderton

Ed Clark

Weiss Berlin
Bundesallee 221, 2nd Floor
September 3–October 14

Ed Clark, Rainbow, 2003, acrylic on canvas, 72 x 58".

Maybe you’ve heard of Ed Clark, but even if you haven’t, you’re in for a treat with this exhibition. Though a part of the Abstract Expressionist movement of the 1950s and an early adopter of working with shaped canvases, Clark—who was born in Louisiana in 1926 and grew up in Chicago—has retained a relatively low profile, only recently receiving a solo show at the Art Institute of Chicago, in 2013. Here, he presents paintings made between 1978 and 2013: large-scale canvases of brightly colored acrylics, fluid and forceful, as well as smaller pieces on paper of acrylic and dried pigment, which hum with a quieter energy.

From someone who is now in his nineties, the exhibition’s nine works are undeniably sensual and sexy. In Rainbow, 2003, veins of magenta bleed into a luminous curving arc of bubblegum pink, beneath which gradated layers of green range from pale apple into shocking lime. While these layers jostle on the canvas, they also resonate somewhere in your gut with visceral impact—pleasurable, if not almost a little too intense. A crusted buildup of paint on the right-hand side speaks to Clark’s technique: He allows select areas of textured matter to dry before pouring liquid pigments over the surface and then sweeping it with a broom in a controlled but fast gesture. The result is a rainbow-shaped manifestation of pace and power.

His passion for color stems from his days in Paris, where he studied at the Académie de la Grande Chaumière from 1952 to 1953, on a GI stipend. Indeed, in a 2011 interview with his friend the painter Jack Whitten he emphasized: “There’s something about France—the angle of the sun or something . . . It gets into your unconscious a little bit.” As does Ed Clark.

Louisa Elderton

Andrea Crespo

Kraupa-Tuskany Zeidler
Kohlfurter Straße 41/43
September 15–October 14

Andrea Crespo, Anxiety Curve, 2017, cut vinyl, 7 1/2' x 11'.

It’s out of the Mitte office block and into a Kreuzberg backyard for this gallery, which is inaugurating its new space with works by Andrea Crespo. The artist’s second solo exhibition in Berlin is a character study of Alan, a fictional young autistic male whose interests include World War II, airplanes, and Sonic the Hedgehog. Small, simple graphite drawings wrap the first room in his images of militarized middle America, complete with bullet-riddled road signs and burning planes.

[intensifies], 2016, the hour-long animated video that gives the show its name, takes an intimate dive into Alan’s perspective as he hits puberty, his interior monologue appearing in subtitles over paint-by-numbers tableaux of locations such as a school cafeteria or a therapist’s couch. Professional and amateur opinions on his autism abound—he is suspected to be violent, a school shooter (which he’s considered, but he “just doesn’t have it in him”). Nevertheless, Alan self-identifies as an alien, a computer, “mutated.” “The more I am tested, the more I become aware,” he says. The video can be watched from one of several bright-hued chairs, whose colors are each linked to a particular level of anxiety indicated by the site-specific wall vinyl Anxiety Curve, 2017.

People with autism are often treated as a type, with a lack of empathy that makes them dangerously, inhumanely reliant on the abstract over the personal—the sort of negative stereotypes reflected in the gallery’s much-discussed “Liquid Autist” show in 2013. Crespo, by contrast, insists on taking an emotional, intimate approach to the subject, questioning how otherness is constructed for those living with this much-misunderstood diagnosis.

Josie Thaddeus-Johns

Lucian Freud

Martin-Gropius-Bau
Niederkirchnerstraße 7
July 22–October 22

Lucian Freud, Head and Shoulders of a Girl, 1990, etching on paper, 31 x 25".

Throughout his long career, the painter Lucian Freud rarely experimented with other media. Among the chosen few was printmaking, but even that was limited to etchings. The current exhibition is devoted to this side of Freud, presenting fifty-one prints, plus three paintings, produced over a span of twenty-seven years.

Even in this seemingly incompatible medium—his etchings, after all, are composed wholly of lines, whereas oil painting allows one to work with viscous areas of color—the figurative essence of Freud’s style is conveyed. Some of the prints are quite demented—A Couple, 1982, depicts a middle-aged pair with their faces stuck together in smiles so wide they verge on the wicked. Little details, such as the curly scribbles conveying the texture on the woman’s blouse, serve as the identifying features of the painterly hand animating these linear compositions. Head and Shoulders, 1982, is maybe the clearest example of the artist’s playful way with line and patterns.

Of course there’s no reason to focus solely on these formal elements. The vast majority flock to Freud for his rawness of humanity, of which there is plenty in the compulsory section dedicated to nudes, where we find renderings of many of the artist’s favored models, such as Sue Tilley. Then there are the profound character studies, including A Conversation, 1998, depicting a daughter elevating a half-smoked cigarette above her shoulder while her mother grips a cup of tea, leaning over as if she were digesting the words that have just pierced the smoke. Keyed in to all the nuances of life, Freud could bring it out of whatever he puts his hands to.

Travis Jeppesen

Michel Majerus

Michel Majerus Estate
Knaackstraße 12
April 28–March 3

Michel Majerus, 10 bears masturbating in 10 boxes, 1992, acrylic on cotton, 9 1/2 x 18'.

The title of this exhibition, “Laboratory for appraising the apparent”—the first of a three-part show at the artist’s former studio space—is appropriated from a quote Michel Majerus once wrote down in a notebook. The phrase simultaneously mirrors the credo of his early work from 1990 through 1995, presented here, and his estate’s mission of an archival reappraisal for the public. An arrangement of books taken from Majerus’s library is installed next to the entrance, appearing like an overview of the artist’s favored sources, including Vogue and Nintendo magazines, a publication on architect Kisho Kurokawa, and textbooks on typography. A distillation of these materials can be traced in the reproductions of thirteen of his small notebooks, neatly labeled with year and month, each containing a cryptic selection of his own aphorisms.

On a wall hangs a giant painting with cartoonish, baffled-looking bears sitting in Chio Chips or Kellogg’s boxes for 10 bears masturbating in 10 boxes, 1992. They are partly covered and outlined with tumultuous curvy strokes in red or blackened turquoise color fields. Slipshod, comic-style lettering underneath displays the title. Referencing Andy Warhol’s commercial phantoms and cribbing the gestural force of a Willem de Kooning not only epitomizes Majerus’s blunt jockeying for a position next to canonical figures and works, but furthermore evinces his obsession with the transformative potential of blending high and low images: an in-your-face remix of signs caught in constant flux.

Bringing to mind Wittgenstein’s reading of the duck-rabbit illusion in Philosophical Investigations (1953), the artist’s fragile surfaces conceal and reveal more than what is initially apparent, or as he scribbled in one of his notebooks: “As soon as someone has sussed out my logic + my system, it’s up to me to point this logic in a direction that contradicts itself so that it can’t become doctrine.”

Elisa R. Linn

Arne Schmitt

Jacky Strenz
Kurt-Schumacher-Str. 2
May 6, 2017–July 18, 2017

Arne Schmitt, In new Splendor (7), 2017, ink-jet print, 14 x 11".

As is often the case with Arne Schmitt’s photographs, the selection of them here can be mistaken, at first glance, for architecture photography. But his sober black-and-white works, which combine an engagement with architecture and city planning in low-key compositions without gimmicks, go far beyond that. In this exhibition, the shots are the tip of an iceberg of invisible research activity.

The series “In new Splendor,” 2017, examines the built heritage of an insurance group in the northwest of Cologne’s city center, which Schmitt reveals to be the point of intersection for different discourses. Michel Foucault’s thesis from his late 1970s lectures The Birth of Biopolitics—the beginning of neoliberalism is to be located in the reformation of the German Republic after 1945—is key for this artist. Correspondingly, he traces a corporate history that addresses not only Germany’s economic miracle but also the development of neoliberal ideology’s dishonest dealings and signature managerial style that openly opposes state and labor union interference.

The group’s business broke up in the aftermath of 9/11, and their former headquarters now houses luxury apartments. One learns all of this in an advertisement for the new development, which Schmitt has furnished with thorough footnotes and included here. It is this subtext that first brings the photographs to full expression and allows one to perceive, for example, the Third Reich–derived style preferred by the insurance group’s patriarch. Not coincidentally, numerous sculptures by Arno Breker—Hitler’s favorite sculptor––still stand on the grounds today. Suddenly, the sobriety of these images is transformed, and historical contamination filters into the present day.

Translated from German by Diana Reese.

Moritz Scheper

Lena Henke

Schirn Kunsthalle Frankfurt
Römerberg
April 28, 2017–July 30, 2017

View of “Lena Henke,” 2017.

Lena Henke has made a walk-in artwork out of the rotunda, a space neither interior nor exterior, illuminated by the light from an approximately sixty-five-foot-tall glass dome. A sculptor by heart, Henke works with the architecture to make the crowds passing through—often to reach the cathedral from old town—aware of the typically overlooked space, interrupting their flow and diverting their attention.

Two oval-shaped glossy aluminum boxes, in the tradition of Donald Judd’s specific objects, stand in the pathways, blocking the two opposing entrances. From the mezzanine one story above, grains of dry sand trickle through the rolling grilles that have replaced four floor-to-ceiling windows and down to lower floors, landing on the sculptures or on the heads of passersby. Looking up, visitors find men walking on piles of the sand, constantly pushing heaps through the grids’ holes. Like Carl Andre’s Grave, 1967, for which he poured a bag of sand down a stairwell, Henke’s work speaks about gravity, evanescence, and the devolution of sculpture. A material fundamental to bronze casting, sand, as it functions in Henke’s work, shape-shifts while forming the artwork. Seen from the mezzanines above, the two aluminum boxes on the ground floor become stand-ins for eyes and the architecture’s columns form a skeleton, and it becomes apparent that Henke has transformed the rotunda into a giant sculpture of a head.

In homage to architect Luis Barragán, magnificent pink, blue, and yellow hues mark the rotunda’s walls and columns. Throughout the day, these delicate tones take on beautiful shades in a compelling public intervention that engages light, form, and color.

Vivien Trommer

Wu Tsang

Kunsthalle Münster
Hafenweg 28
May 27–October 1

Wu Tsang and Fred Moten, We hold where study, 2017, two-channel HD video, color, sound, 18 minutes 56 seconds.

“How to create a situation in which study can feel like something—the tactile sense of something going on”: Wu Tsang and Fred Moten pose this question in Who Touched Me?, (2016) a publication that developed out of their residency at If I Can’t Dance, I Don’t Want To Be Part of Your Revolution, Amsterdam. No matter how obscure the phrasing might be, this query forms the basis of their ongoing artistic collaboration, including their joint works Gravitational Feel, 2016, and We hold where study, 2017, which both cast tactility as a mode of intellectual, artistic, and even poetic production.

At Kunsthalle Münster, in front of Gravitational Feel’s shimmering column-like curtains of fabric knots in gold, navy, turquoise, and white, the two-channel We hold where study presents five chapters of “entanglements,” where two bodies on each side of the screen (except in the first chapter) engage in nonrepresentational yet emotive dance out in a field and in a studio. These chapters are menacingly titled after contemporary phenomena (often related to mass production and consumption), such as “The Assembly Line” and “The Algorithm.” In “The Consultant,” dancers appear to simulate ever-fluctuating financial indices rising and falling, and they do so with a curiously smooth chain of swift, staccato movements, which could well be mistaken for an unknown folkloric dance from the Caucasus. This flightiness yields itself to a palpable evocation of internal pressure in “The Socioecological Disaster”: On the left, two figures attempt to keep their heads touching as they simultaneously move together and push each other away—an involuntary haptic bond, a metaphor for our boundedness in fate.

Gökcan Demirkazik

Hans Op de Beeck

Kunstmuseum Wolfsburg
Hollerplatz 1
April 9, 2017–September 3, 2017

Hans Op de Beeck, The Collector’s House, 2016, mixed media, 66 x 41 x 13'.

In his films, drawings, dioramas, and immersive installations, Hans Op de Beeck weds a cunning compositional intelligence with a scenographer’s sleight of hand, telling stories through space. The artist reveals some of his tricks in the 2013 film Staging Silence (2), which spins an array of meditative miniature landscapes from tabletop arrangements of coffee-soaked sugar cubes, half-empty water bottles, and potatoes cut to resemble rocky coastlines. That human hands openly intervene within the frame—dei ex machina manipulating the humble elements on screen—only amplifies the sublime harmonies of the microenvironments.

The artist’s first major retrospective transforms the museum’s central two-story hall into a dimly lit village. Each of the settlement’s structures, some with tiled roofs, contains a single piece, including Staging Silence (2); Location (1), 1998, an affecting diorama of a desolate intersection, its traffic lights shifting steadily in the late evening haze, and Table (1), 2006, an after-dinner scene staged at a scale of 1.5:1, effectively returning adult viewers to the perspective of a seven-year-old child as they survey platters of cakes and pies. Visitors enter this village through The Collector’s House, 2016, a marvelous monochrome den in which trappings of wealth are reproduced in life-size plaster, calcified in mottled gray tones (save for the glossy black surface of a reflecting pool, dotted with ivory-white water lilies and a stray high heel.) Amid emblems typical of a vanitas—skulls, goblets, stodgily bound books, a stuffed peacock—emerge the less traditional motifs of soda cans, Starbucks cups, half-stubbed cigarettes, and smartphones. Sculpted figures appear as both objects and inhabitants of the interiors; a young girl tangles her fingers in a cat’s cradle of yarn, while a boy cradles blackberries in his palm. Their serenity marks the space as one of contemplation, unhindered by any suspicion of their petrified calm.

Kate Sutton