New York

View of “Elaine Cameron-Weir,” 2019.

View of “Elaine Cameron-Weir,” 2019.

Elaine Cameron-Weir

JTT

Let’s get these out of the way: A BDSM dungeon for alchemist Bitcoin investors. A druid hideaway in the abandoned Palo Alto headquarters of the corporation Theranos. A crossover between Breaking Bad and Game of Thrones, where Walter White cooks meth for White Walkers. I could go on. This is the kind of prose that the art of Elaine Cameron-Weir inspires. Her assemblage sculptures and their lengthy, loopy titles—e.g., at the end of the line an echo sliding downtown the mercurial reflective pool of a familiar voice and me a person it never made real in the mirrors of my own halls (all works 2019)—variously suggest laboratories, armories, cloisters, catwalks, abattoirs, shrines, hospitals, or crypts. Comb through reviews of her past exhibitions and you’ll find several gallant attempts to capture their prevailing mood in a single pithy turn of phrase. Part of the pleasure of her work is making

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