I first visited Josh Kline’s studio in the fall of 2008, and I still haven’t recovered from the shock. At the time, Kline was filling bankers boxes with Bic pens, then slathering them in beige paint. Drawings of Tylenol bottles lay crumpled together in a pile. Everything seemed half-finished or badly neglected, yet Kline spoke of the work with animated conviction. Even in his studio, Kline harped on his day job, deeply bothered by how the protocols, postures, and products of his office had come to saturate his body.
Kline no longer reports to an office, but he is nevertheless preoccupied with employmentor rather, “Unemployment,” his recent solo exhibition. In one room, four bankers boxes loaded with framed photographs, sneakers, and other personal effects hung from the ceiling by cables. Each was encased in a clear plastic sphere riddled with thorn-like extrusions, a shape
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