New York

Carl D'Alvia

Jessica Fredericks Gallery

Carl D’Alvia’s life-size plaster statues conjure an inspiring vision: The family that slays together stays together. “Dad” is a hulking brute in superhero garb who sits like Rodin’s Thinker, contemplating the high-powered machine gun grafted to his forearm (Bad Guy, 1997). “Mom,” a caped, spandexed hard-body with ten Shiva-like arms (Ms. Trouble, 1998), raises her own Gatling-gun prostheses in a cubistic reenactment of Robert De Niro’s Taxi Driver “You talkin’ to me?” routine. And between them “Junior”—a cyberdog with video-camera eye, external-hard-drive brain, and shoulder-mounted machine pistol (Rat Dog, 1996)—looks ready to squeeze off a few rounds of his own.

The title of the series, “Statuary,” reveals that D’Alvia aims to combine two suspect genres: the tradition of public statuary that survives today mainly in kitschy commissions of Seward Johnson and Frederick Hart (of

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