new-york

Lucas Samaras

Pace Gallery

By poking, caressing, scratching, scraping, modeling, and who knows what other means of molesting the photoemulsion of Polaroid SX-70 color prints, still wet underneath their protective seal, and faint in their first few developing minutes outside the camera, Lucas Samaras so violates the integrity of the photographic record that, even if he had not gangrened his chroma with the shrieking cerises and emeralds of filtered lights, the things observed through the lens seem to shrivel or wraggle, animistically, as if cursed with some metabolic disaster first urged on by genetic misalliance. Photo-transformations, he euphemistically calls them. And the one subject upon which these 80 or so 3“ by 3” photos focus—as well as the thousand he’s been working on in the last several months—is himself. The man lifts up what appears to be the skin of his back, revealing a carcinomic landscape bristling

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