New York

Donald Judd

Leo Castelli Gallery

The morphologies informing Warhol’s art are protean. Not so with Donald Judd. The uncharitable part of me dismisses his lifelong homage to the box, sees his metal deco stacks as regurgitations of moderne interior design, remains unmoved by the dazzling fabrication of his cavalcade of modules. Although this is an apples-and-pears contrast, what’s exciting about Warhol is that B does not necessarily follow A; what’s moribund about Judd’s work is that B necessarily does.

It’s not just Judd’s logic that’s rigid. From the look of these boxes, it’s his whole sensibility. His sculptures are monomaniacal, monochrome . . . monochromiacal. Some find these pristine arrangements of brass, aluminum or unfinished plywood exhilarating. How can you be exhilarated when you’re worried about leaving fingerprints or getting splinters? This art is for banks and boardrooms: its chilly attitude is all business

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