Jenny Gage

Luhring Augustine | Chelsea

A dark-haired figure leans against a car, her long mane streaming sideways in the breeze, the word “Racing” stamped on her baby blue tank top over her heart. Another girl—or perhaps the same one—stands before a window, pulling back the floral drapes with one hand; a strobe-like flash of sunshine obscures her face. Moodily lit and suggestively cropped, the large-format color photographs in Jenny Gage’s second solo exhibition in New York offered a smooth mix of vérité and voyeurism, a theater of received ideas about the fragility and unattainability of girls from the wrong side of some southern California tracks. The “Ventura” series (all works 1998–2000) positions its subjects as characters in an implied film, everywoman starlets whose identities need not be known, since they are already monumentally overdetermined.

According to press materials, Gage, who grew up in suburban LA,

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