new-york

Robert Graham

Kornblee Gallery

From a certain point of view Robert Graham may be thought of as a George Segal turned inside out and seen through the wrong end of a telescope. His wax figures are sexy, tinier-than-lifelike effigies, the only touches of color in otherwise blank environments constructed out of balsa and kleenex. The girls are sunkist versions of Pat Oldenburg and disport themselves in affective ecdysiast postures. Their bikini striped breasts are exquisitely punctuated with standup nipples and their hand-painted pudenda are painstakingly fitted with pubic hair. In part they are casual relations to the new plexigloss Wesselmanns and the pink cunnilingual dolls of Hans Bellmer. A strong Surrealist slang in forms Graham’s doll’s houses. (Imagine a bevy of beach bummerettes in sunbleached tresses and wet T-shirts had stumbled into Giacometti’s Palace at 4 A.M.) The erotic attractions of Graham’s girls, vagrant

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