Eight or nine years ago Carroll Dunham ended a period of focusing on male figuresfigures comically, formulaically masculine, wearing suits and sporting cigarette-butt heads and penis noses, their hands sometimes wielding things that could have been pipes or guns or penises againand went to the other side, developing an imagery of naked women gamboling in gardens. The women were large and big-boned and ungraceful, their sexual signifiers were as distinct and determining as the men’s had been, and there were those who found them grotesque, but I thought their exuberant physicality was kind of great. They ran, they dived and danced in the water, they literally swung from trees, they surrounded themselves with foliage and flowers, and their bodies, though schematically rendered and viewed from unexpected perspectives, were strong and imposing. Girl power had come to Dunham’s
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