New York

Teun Hocks

P. P. O. W.

Teun Hocks has a flair for the absurd. In his recent large, hand-tinted photographs, he appears as a proper bourgeois, dressed immaculately in suit, tie, and white shirt, in a variety of deceptively plain stage settings of weirdly improbable worlds: a shack in the woods; a kind of foxhole; a wide, uninhabited landscape. Seemingly unaffected by the surreality of his situation, he impassively holds his own. In one image he puts his head into a framed picture as if through a window; in another he lies hunched up on a bed spanning a road in the middle of nowhere. In a third work, also in the middle of nowhere, he leans forlornly against a tree to which a birdhouse is attached, perhaps waiting for its tenant to show up. Elsewhere, he shields a candle from the wind, like Diogenes in search of an honest man—but there’s no wind, and while the philosopher searched in the city, Hocks here seems to

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