New York


Hal Bromm Gallery

Call it rumpus room art. Presiding was Martin Wong’s Lower East Side “street of life,” its grave clarity like a blistering consciousness full of cosmic portents. But of course it’s all ingratiating melodrama. Standing forlornly was one of the aberrant children, Jonathan Ellis’ The Gene Pool Taps Back, 1983. Then there was Keith Haring’s baby Crib, 1981, a kind of “crib” to Haring’s consciousness, brilliantly “retarded” in a way in its endless harping on one note, and certainly an emotional home to far-from-retarded children. The gallery seemed full of wittily arrested developments, of clever visual gossip on “the way things are,” of throwaway art that imagines it packs a treatise in its kibitzing. There were lots of nasty fun, like Debby Davis’ Pig Head, 1983, reminding one of the old Dada general and William Golding’s Lord of the Flies; and lots of crazy relatives, as in Judith Glantzman’s

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