new-york

Hannah Wilke

Ronald Feldman Gallery

“Since sexual issues still frighten, and male superiority still flourishes leaving cunt queens quite lonely . . . could we possibly find a better name for my kittens?” Hannah Wilke charmingly asks this in reply to Art-Rite’s recent question to several women artists: “Do you think there is a shared female artistic sensibility in the work of female artists?” Nancy Graves, Sylvia Stone, and Joan Jonas said “No!”; Laurie Anderson and Judy Chicago hedged; and Agnes Martin rejected the question. But Hannah Wilke’s answer is the one I remember. It’s the one I tell friends. And that’s the point. I remember it! Like it or not, I can never look at Wilke’s sculpture in the same way again. Irrespective of whether it’s her earlier large latex wall hangings, or her present small terra-cotta and lint folds, or her video gesture pieces, her rhetoric has stuck on her art. She may, or may not, live up to

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