PRINT Summer 2002


Word had it that the artist, dressed as a Napoleonic courier, rode into the gallery on a white horse, read a message of surrender, turned around and rode out. You had to be there. The rest of the show made no mention of it and the artist never photographs her performances. Even if you were there, you might have missed the wolf howl that was supposed to play intermittently. The serial drawings of simple green tubes or cylinders proved no less elusive. The checklist said “see front desk for title,” and, on request, a gallery assistant would obligingly play an MP3 drum sequence. In short, you might have come and gone without ever realizing you had missed anything at all.

Although Trisha Donnelly’s solo debut, at Casey Kaplan in New York, was all about belief structures, the work itself is full of baffles and feints. Seeing is not necessarily believing. Instead of asking viewers to suspend

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