london

Itai Doron

Jay Jopling

Here’s the pitch: Guy Debord meets Marshall McLuhan. The interior monologue of a star-struck Hollywood foundling begins its expansion to infinity. The attack of the 50-foot notion. We find ourselves trapped in a 12,000-square-foot projection of Itai Doron’s imaginative neural network. This is the body electric, and he sings with a vengeance. This is The Immaculate Stereoscopic Conception of Mr. D., 1993. Across town, in the impeccably Modernist White Cube, a more modest exhibition concentrating on Mr. D.’s primal media recollections is on offer. Titled “The Secret Life and Archaic Times of Mr. D.,” these close-to-puerile photomontages throb in unison to the Dockland’s beat of Doron’s inverted Global Village.

Episode I: We are on the threshold. As we watch Clive Crawford of the dance group DV-8 writhe to the beat of a different drummer, Grace Slick belts out her anthem to other leaves of

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