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Jason Rhoades, My Brother/Brancuzi, 1995, carpet, wood, steel, small gasoline engines, tools, plastic, doughnut machine, mixed media. Installation view, 2017–18. Photo: Laura Wilson. © The Estate of Jason Rhoades.

Jason Rhoades

The Brant Foundation Art Study Center

Jason Rhoades, My Brother/Brancuzi, 1995, carpet, wood, steel, small gasoline engines, tools, plastic, doughnut machine, mixed media. Installation view, 2017–18. Photo: Laura Wilson. © The Estate of Jason Rhoades.

HOW WOULD JASON RHOADES’S desire to offend go down now, in this era of call-outs and open letters? Many of the late artist’s raucous installations are like elaborate exercises in trolling: They appear orchestrated to provoke, conjuring the specter of an overactive macho id, preoccupied by cars, power tools, guns, pornography, dick jokes, cum jokes, pussy jokes, religious jokes, junk food, and celebrity.

The Brant Foundation—which has mounted a focused presentation of Rhoades’s work, including three major installations—has an obvious fondness for those who have at one time or another taken up the mantle of bad boy. Most of the Foundation’s solo exhibitions have showcased men, among them Dan Colen, Nate Lowman, Rob Pruitt, Josh Smith, and Dash Snow. And yet the very exclusive environment of the foundation—a converted historic barn in Greenwich, Connecticut, amid polo fields and

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