new-york

Gregory Crewdson

Luhring Augustine | Chelsea

Gregory Crewdson’s new series of staged photographs, “Twilight” (1998–99, all Untitled), shows a suburbia run amok. People who can’t take the subway to work grow obsessed with the underground, tunneling holes in their living rooms or digging gardens there. Or else they look up at the sky, from whence falls light—whether from the local traffic copter or from a tuneful spaceship out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, we are not told. Look out your window in Crewdson’s Lot and you’ll see your pregnant neighbor alone in the street, stripped to her undies to take the cool evening air on her skin. Peek into a garage and you might find a woman building a pyre of flowers higher than her head—perhaps preparing for some fragrant rite of seppuku, but again, we can only guess. Natural phenomena catch the eerie mood: When a car engine catches fire, radiance glows not only from under the hood but

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