New York

Miguel Calderón

Andrea Rosen Gallery

After Damien Hirst, Sean Landers, the Chapmans, et al., do we really need another bad boy, more swagger for swagger’s sake? Miguel Calderón seems to think so—rather, in the true spirit of bad boys, doesn’t give a damn. In any case, Calderón’s show of paintings, videos, and sculpture is the latest testimony to a now all-too-familiar sneer at earnest artmaking.

That Calderón is Mexican does however make an initial difference. Unlike Landers and company, his provocations at least seem to have some justification: thumbing their noses at stereotypes of Latin American art as either leaning toward craft or lush with magic realism. In this vein, the four paintings in the show—awkward depictions of what look like stills from some sleazy ’70s B movie—militated aggressively against the possibility of lyric exoticism. Three of them were based on photographs of Calderón and his crew in

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