Predictably winking but at times also unexpectedly personal and even wistful, Tom Sachs’s recent solo show was figured as a kind of material autobiography: a trip down an artistic memory lane paved with a thousand different things, each subsumed within the systematizing logic of his famously relentless, tongue-in-cheek didacticism. The exhibition showcased the ways his artistic persona can both charm and chafeit was maniacally overstuffed with objects and language, rich in obsessive-compulsive tics, and marked by a cultivated mash-up of gravitas and juvenilia, of amiable self-deprecation and surpassing self-regard. It once again emphasized the permeability between Sachs’s process and its products, and how assiduously he works to keep the relationship between the two transparent.
The exhibition, titled “Objects of Devotion,” was structured around the gathering, under a
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