View of “Erik Steinbrecher,” 2016.

View of “Erik Steinbrecher,” 2016.

Erik Steinbrecher


View of “Erik Steinbrecher,” 2016.

In a show at Stampa’s suite of rooms, you always experience everything twice: once on your way in, and again on your way out, your journey usually interrupted by a side trip to the bookstore that sends you off on further jaunts of the imagination. I’ll begin this tale in the gallery’s back room, as one might run a film backward: A red parasol, set in a white plastic stand and adorned with a glowing lightbulb dangling on a long cord, cheerfully arched above a loose assemblage of found and artist-made objects arranged on the pale wood floor, as if the sun were shining indoors. Scattered elements made of ceramic (both fired and raw) lay beside a microwave that might potentially have altered the aggregate state of these plastic forms. Wide-mesh crocheted shawls in a mildly nostalgic eggshell white hung from gleaming-white ceramic tiles attached to the walls. But this idyllic

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