new-york

Sharon Lockhart

Friedrich Petzel Gallery

For Virginia Woolf, a moment was best understood by dissecting the particular elements that made it up, so that “the truth of it, the whole of it” might be composed. Just as Woolf sought out the small details of a scene—a lamp being lit or the hoot of an owl—to convey the singularity of an instant so, too, Sharon Lockhart dwells on the minutiae of the particular settings her figures inhabit. In one of the eight color photographs presented in her second New York solo show, a waiflike girl stands on a fuzzy gray rug, staring off into the distance, completely absorbed by whatever it is that has fixed her gaze. The scene around the girl is rendered in deliberate detail: a glass coffee table stands in front of her; a small painting hangs on the wall just to her right; and to her left, a tiled hallway leads to another room with a window and a dining set. Yet unlike Woolf, Lockhart thwarts attempts

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