New York

Martin Silverman

Edward Thorp Gallery

However much Thek embraces clichés and funk, his shrug of a technique preserves the results from being “cute.” That epithet seems to be reserved for clichés and funk that are carefully, pains takingly rendered. Somehow the lavished attention is diagnosed as the symptom of an infatuation with the subject. I suspect that Martin Silverman is curious to see how far “cute” can be pushed—it may be the only taboo left to contemporary art.

In his preceding show the laborious, hokey figures were foiled by their own return-of-the-repressed sexuality. There was pathology in that homely ’30s stockiness. Having redeemed one period style that languished in the exhaust of the Modernist juggernaut, Silverman has apparently decided to dust off two other somewhat marginal reputations—those of Elie Nadelman and of the Alexander Calder of the Circus. Graceful, tapering sinuosity and openwork kitsch are keyed

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