#john vincler

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: What to See in N.Y.C. Galleries in December by Max Lakin, Blake Gopnik, Will Heinrich, Aruna D’Souza, John Vincler, Jillian Steinhauer, Travis Diehl and Roberta Smith

By Max Lakin, Blake Gopnik, Will Heinrich, Aruna D’Souza, John Vincler, Jillian Steinhauer, Travis Diehl and Roberta Smith Want to see new art in New York this weekend? Check out a Picasso tribute or Duane Linklater’s painted textiles in TriBeCa; works by Nicole Eisenman and Rosemarie Trockel on the Upper East Side and Ali Cherry’s mud sculptures on the Lower East Side. Published: December 1,…

[citylightsbooks]

5 Questions with Kate Zambreno, Author of To Write As If Already Dead

Kate Zambreno is the author of many acclaimed books, including Drifts (2020), Appendix Project (2019), Screen Tests (2019), Book of Mutter (2017), and Heroines (2012). Her writing has appeared in the Paris Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She teaches in the graduate nonfiction program at Columbia University and is the Strachan Donnelley Chair in Environmental Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. Her newest book is To Write As If Already Dead, published by Columbia University Press.

Kate Zambreno will be in conversation with T Fleischmann about her new book in our City Lights LIVE! virtual event series on Wednesday, June 30th, 2021.

*****

Where are you writing to us from?

I’m writing to you from the first floor of the Victorian house we have rented in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn, for nearly a decade. We haven’t left this entire year. I am on the couch at the end of a long day. There’s an early evening light coming in through the front window, my dog Genet is vigilantly expecting dinner, my four-year-old is tearing around outback, while her baby sister and her father watch.

What’s kept you sane during the pandemic?

Going to Prospect Park regularly this year—even in January and February—and watching my daughter run around, and make mudpies, and make forts and strange tree sculptures by dragging around fallen branches, sticks, rocks, and logs.

What books are you reading right now? Which books do you return to?

I am writing the introduction to the Portuguese writer Maria Judite de Carvalho’s novel, Empty Wardrobes, translated by Margaret Jull Costa, and published by Two Lines Press, so I’m thinking through that work of interiority and domestic spaces and oppression and grief.

I just finished being in conversation with Cristina Rivera Garza at Sarah Lawrence College, where I teach, and a work that Rivera Garza kept mentioning in conversation with her newest essay collection Grieving: Dispatches from a Wounded Country (translated by Sarah Booker and published by Feminist Press) is Christina Sharpe’s In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (Duke University Press), so that’s up next.

I’m reading everything I can get my hands on about Eva Hesse, including the diaries, for a novel I’m writing, Foam, that thinks through different traumas and textures, including soft sculpture.

Speaking of Two Lines Press, I’ve been loving the work of Marie NDiaye in translation, specifically Self-Portrait in Green. I’ve also been returning frequently to works by Japanese women in translation, specifically, Yuko Tsushima, not only Territory of Light but also her stories, and Hiroko Oyamada’s novels, all published in translation by New Directions.

For a class I teach at Sarah Lawrence, on writing and elegy and the anthropocene, I’m reading Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing’s The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins (Princeton University Press). Hedi El-Kholti, my editor at Semiotext(e) is sending me Peter Sloterdijik’s Spheres trilogy in the mail, because I need to read a book called Foams! And so I’m looking forward to that. I also am looking forward to reading Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore’s The Freezer Door, and Aisha Sabatini Sloan’s Borealis.

Which writers, artists, and others influence your work in general, and this book, specifically?

The diptych structure of the book was inspired by reading Enrique Vila-Matas’s Because She Never Asked (published in translation by New Directions), which begins with the story written for the conceptual artist Sophie Calle to live out—the second half involves the Vila-Matas narrator writing the story. Vila-Matas is so ludic and conceptual and in love with literature and probably one of the writers that inspires me the most for the past two books (Drifts and the Guibert study). And Sophie Calle as well—the concept of a noirish or speculative essay like The Address Book—and in To Write As If Already Dead I think through Calle’s relationship with Hervé Guibert and how they fictionalized each other in their works. The photobooks of Moyra Davey, the relationship of her essays and diaristic works to her images, are incredibly important to me, like Burn the Diaries and Les Goddesses. Anne Carson, especially her talks and pieces collected in Float and her Short Talks. Bernhard and Sebald.

Of course, I should say the writing of Hervé Guibert, and that’s the right answer—the book in general was catalyzed by him, thinking through his whole project, the diary, the later illness works, his relationship to speed, to tone, to writing friendships. There’s also really interesting writing that’s channeling Guibert now—from Moyra Davey’s work, to Andrew Durbin’s novel Skyland, that Nightboat published.

So much of the first half of To Write As If Already Dead is a love letter to the community I formed online now a decade ago and whose writing I always feel in conversation with—my friends who are writers are often my favorite writers, and doing such tender and vital work, especially T. Fleischmann, who I’m delighted to be in conversation with at City Lights. I love them and their work and we have spoken to each other about Guibert for a while. Others like Sofia Samatar, and Danielle Dutton, who also runs Dorothy, a publishing project.

The book is dedicated to Bhanu Kapil, who I first met online a decade ago as we each wrote these unruly notebook projects on our blogs, and so much of the study feels like continuing the conversation we’ve been having the past few years, about how to write and survive under capitalism, on caretaking vs art. I think Bhanu is one of the most important and thrillingly playful and exciting writers alive.

If you opened a bookstore, where would it be located, what would it be called, and what would your bestseller be?

I think it would be on Cortelyou Road in Ditmas Park, as we don’t have a bookstore here. It would be called Finger and Thumb – when my partner John Vincler and I always spoke about having a bookstore that’s what we wanted to call it, it’s from Beckett and seems to gesture to the eroticism of actual print. I’m imagining we would sell artists’ books and chapbooks (like Sarah McCarry’s Guillotine series), art presses, presses like Semiotext(e) and Dorothy and Two Lines and Fitzcarraldo and Nightboat and New Directions and Transit Books. I think that our bestseller would be Saidiya Hartman’s Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Riotous Black Girls, Troublesome Women and Queer Radicals, because it’s the book we often refer to amongst each other and urge on others to read, especially those interested in taking care in writing from research and archives, of what the archives have neglected, and the imaginative possibility of resurrecting the lives of others.

[red-will]

Grid Logic

Susan Howe’s cut-up histories recombine fragments, lists, and quotations into poems that often resemble visual art. 

BY JOHN VINCLER

There was a time, now more than a decade ago, when I found Susan Howe’s poetry too opaque. The fractured and clipped syntax, and the stuttered sounds, left me searching for a point of entry. Her use of typography, symbols (arrows, brackets, etc.), and idiosyncratic punctuation halted my attempted reading. But then I read My Emily Dickinson (1985), her unclassifiable prose work that created a dialogue between the namesake Amherst poet and the Brontë sisters. It helped me understand how radical art could emerge from something as austere and stultifying as Puritanism. Through a structure more architectural than argumentative, it built an expanse of ideas, traced literary genealogies, and illuminated aspects of American history that previously hadn’t interested me but that in Howe’s framing became urgently alive. After reading the book, it was as if the difficulty, or at least the opacity, I previously experienced with Howe’s poems suddenly fell away. It wasn’t that her work was easier to access—it was that I was willing to go wherever the work took me; what at first felt closed seemed like a series of open doors.

Like her contemporaries Anne Carson and Claudia Rankine, Howe is a radical stylist. An atomistic attention to units of sound and typographical form characterizes her work, which in recent years has extended to her practice of composing poems with tape and scissors from found texts, resulting in photocopied collage works that challenge the limits of legibility through poems increasingly proximate to visual art. (A selection of these compositions was exhibited at the 2014 Whitney Biennial.) Also like Carson’s and Rankine’s poems, Howe’s sometimes look more like essays; she shares Carson’s habit of revivifying the intellectual lives of the past and Rankine’s concern for interrogating American self-mythology. In her essayistic mode, Howe relies extensively on quotation, stitching together brief illuminating anecdotes, lyrical fragments, philosophical observations, lists, and dictionary definitions. Entries from early editions of Noah Webster’s dictionary are used as if to view the origins of American word usage like preserved specimens under a microscope. A rich and expansive set of sources and concerns repeat in her work, most notably centering around the intellectual history of the United States and New England, including Dickinson and Ralph Waldo Emerson’s circle; encompassing the Brontës, the Romantics, and Shakespeare; forward to the high modernism of James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, William Carlos Williams, and Wallace Stevens; and on through to contemporary art and film.

Howe is as interested in theology and the law as she is in art and literature, all of which she brings together in sometimes cacophonous choral dialogue. Although her subjects may seem antiquarian, the means with which she addresses them is starkly avant-garde, doing for early American intellectual history what the philosopher-critic Walter Benjamin did for the 19th-century Parisian shopping arcades in his unfinished Arcades Project. As Benjamin did, Howe composes by collecting quotations, facts, and related observations, which she then arranges as much by rhythm as by theme. Howe has said “my work is a mass of quotations,” and in her work, readers experience an eclectic but judiciously curated personal library that has been cut down and reassembled into stylized, intellectual auto-portraits.

Howe’s techniques for writing cut-up histories are on display in three distinct modes in the three sections—let’s call them long poems—of her latest book, Concordance (New Directions, 2020). The title refers to a list, usually in book form, used for textual analysis and navigation. A concordance, first used to study the Bible, consists of an alphabetical arrangement of principal words in a book or some other body of text (such as the complete works of an author) along with their immediate contexts. Howe’s Concordance asks a question at the hinge of form and content: what is the relation between collage and concordance? Although the latter is formally rigorous and indexical in the way it parses text into an enumerated alphabetical list, the process of collage—from the French “to glue”—is aesthetic and intuitive as it arranges disparate parts into a coherent whole.

The epigraph to Howe’s book comes from the Concordance to the Letters of Emily Dickinson and uses the entry for “Sliver” to show how a concordance functions:

“Sliver (2) 1885 ‘An envious Sliver broke’ was a” Concordance to the Letters of Emily Dickinson _________ To Abbie C. Farley early August 1885. “‘An envious Sliver broke’ was a passage your Uncle peculiarly loved in the drowning Ophelia”

The broken phrase found in the concordance (probably delimited by a fixed number of characters) produces a quality at once constrained and oracular, similar to the syntax of Howe’s shorter poems. The juxtaposition of the clipped entry with the full sentence also illustrates how a fragment that appears opaque may become more transparent with little additional information. With this example, Howe begins a chain of references relating to scenes of drowning that continues throughout the book. The rigor of the concordance and the intuition of collage provide a dynamic tension to the book’s three unfolding movements.

“Since,” the book’s first and most essayistic section, begins, “Ghostly step pre-articulate hop.” How to trace this tentative fragment of a line? Perhaps pre-articulate, like a score awaiting its performance. Or a book read but only silently, internally, unvoiced. I excavate pre-articulate as a phrase Howe has used before, in Spontaneous Particulars: The Telepathy of Archives (2014), her illustrated lecture turned book-length ode to the rare book rooms and special collection libraries where she has researched and incubated her work. She refers to archival objects and manuscripts as “a pre-articulate empty theater where a thought may surprise itself at the instant of seeing. Where a thought may hear itself see.” Spontaneous Particulars explores the wonder of reading manuscripts and archives; Concordance illustrates the way Howe synthesizes this reading and research into poems in which readers might experience surprise at “the instant of seeing.” In “Since,” she describes this process, slantwise, as “microscopic reduplications of desire … pieced together through grid logic.” Howe sets herself up as an intermediary transmitting her sources to readers. She’s a medium not—or not merely—in the sense of a spiritualist (she writes of “mesmerism” in “Since,” the section title an approximate homonym for séance) but in the technological sense. Howe is sensitive to technology’s rigor as well as its potential for error. (“Since” is also a close homonym to sins, another link to error as well as to the Puritan obsession with original sin.) “In order to facilitate phonetic interpretation, I will make up my mouth as if it’s a telegram,” she writes.

Technological references recur throughout Concordance: telegraphs, typewriters, radios, and stereoscopes. The most important technology as it relates to form and method here may be scissors, which she links to the book’s opening phrase: “Always is a reader going on with little and great hops.” Later down the page—“Scissor a stricken rabbit crying out.” The collagist’s scissors cut fragments of text for readers to hop between. Webster’s dictionary entry for “Scissors” follows as does an aphorism by Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. (a central figure in the section): “Life is painting a picture not doing a sum.” Perhaps picture is to sum as collage is to concordance? “Concordance can also mean a state of harmony between persons. Or a musical chord with satisfying musical effect,” Howe writes. As the fragments accrue, readers begin to sew connections across them or to listen for harmonic chiming. The distinctions between painting and sum and collage and concordance are not so rigid—they bleed into and complement one another.

Death, real or imagined, looms over Concordance. “I’m so scared of dying without answers,” Howe writes. Born in 1937, she is “a relic of the typewriter generation” who is clear-eyed about the fact she is writing near the end of her life. “Late poems tiptoeing on a philosophical threshold of separation and mourning for an irrevocable past holding to memory ...,” she writes in “Since.” The poem—its various fragments like doors leading each to a room containing a memory—functions much like a concordance, whose fragments point to the whole of the source. Howe quotes a line from Judge Holmes’s memoir: “I’m dead, I’m like a ghost on the battlefield with bullets flying through me,” to which she comically replies “To a certain extent I’m also alive.” (Howe is often funny, as when she writes “What is rabbit light? Is it a fusion of rabbit and light?” in reference to the phrase from Wallace Stevens’s poem “A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts.”) As with the epigraphs, we again see Dickinson pointing us toward Shakespeare and to a source for the title of this first section. In a letter from Dickinson to Judge Otis P. Lord, the poet writes, “Antony’s remark to a friend, ‘since Cleopatra died,’ is said to be the saddest ever lain in Language—That engulfing ‘Since.’” This quote is immediately preceded by a simple dedication: “Emily Dickinson from Judge Otis P. Lord, 1880,” which was transcribed from the flyleaf of Dickinson’s copy of The Complete Concordance to Shakespeare. It was a gift from the judge to Dickinson. Judge Lord later asked Dickinson to marry him following the death of her mother; she declined.

Knowing little about Judge Lord and following Howe’s prodding elsewhere—“Google again for the source of my quotation”—I learned Lord was the “Uncle” referred to in the epigraph’s letter (“’An envious Sliver broke’ was a passage your Uncle peculiarly loved in the drowning Ophelia.”) I also learned the letter was made in reference to the drowning of Mary Farley, Abbie’s cousin, in Walden Pond. This extends the context for the reference to drowning, a motif Howe takes up again in the third section of the book, which centers on the 19th-century writer and women’s rights advocate Margaret Fuller.

By the end of this first section, readers are tangled in a dense, still somewhat mysteriously related web of connections. But I am left with a layered picture: Howe writing at her desk in contemporary Connecticut, not far from where Dickinson sat at her small desk in 19th-century Massachusetts corresponding with her contemporaries and thinking of Shakespeare. Howe accesses Dickinson partly through her copy of the Concordance to the Letters of Emily Dickinson, as Dickinson accessed Shakespeare partly through the concordance of his plays that Judge Lord gave her. I imagine each writer with her tools for studying, analyzing, and collecting the past in writing. In the dense 20 pages of “Since,” it is as if Howe provides readers with a sheaf of notes for better understanding and contextualizing the two sections that follow.

“Concordance,” the second section, is starker. It consists of Howe’s cut, taped, and photocopied collage poems. The poem constructions provide small windows through which only flickers of an obscure whole are visible. I’m reminded of the small windows in the Georgian-style clapboard house in Concord, Massachusetts, on which Nathaniel Hawthorne etched a poem with a diamond in the 1840s, which Howe references elsewhere in her work. (The title Concordance also sounds an allusion to Concord.) If these poems often cannot be read as narrative or even lyric fragments, they do evoke images as concrete poems. They appear variously as squat houses (not unlike Dickinson’s so-called “envelope poems”), as bundles of sticks or channels of running water, as patterned embroidered patches on white linen cloth. A skinny poem without a single legible word is like the toothsome track of a zipper. Others resemble fragments of skulls; another looks distinctly like a ladder; and two or three look like radios, recalling the line “This is radio memory” that appears in “Since.” The word thorough repeats perhaps more than any other. A rare, almost-lengthy phrase is legible: “The eternal note of sadness[es] do wander everywhere.” A stack of words, almost certainly from a concordance, is aligned right on the page in a vertical column that, in part, reads “Retirement, Retires, Retiring, Retort, Retorted, Retreat, Retreated, Retreating, Retrenched, Retribution.” This stack also recalls Dickinson’s habit of creating alternative word choices in columns above or below where they would appear in her draft manuscript poems.

The shift in tone from “Since” to “Concordance,” at first disconcerting, is ultimately reviving as it pulls readers’ attention to different modalities of reading, seeing, and thinking. Concordances, principally the concordance of Dickinson’s correspondence, serve as all, or a substantial portion of, the source material for these recombinant poems. If “Since” reads like an accrual of notes written over months or years within a particular library, then “Concordance” looks like a series of collage works made from the scraps discarded in the recycling bin next to that same library’s photocopier. It is as if these long poems are composed in counterpoint to one another to illustrate two different approaches to the same material. In “Concordance,” Howe demonstrates another means of reworking sources; these are poems from a library dissected using scissors like a scalpel.

In the third and final section, “Space Permitting,” Howe works in a more traditional poetic mode. Each page contains one or two stanzas of no more than eight lines. In these poems, an assortment of water-logged garments washes up on, and are collected from, the shore, as are life preservers; tossed, wrecked planks; and sundry personal effects. The clipped lines feel as though they are sourced from a diary that consists mostly of lists:

Tasseled dress torn by wreck— spike lead color shut tin box Bundle of letters and papers a child’s striped apron fringe

The poem relates the aftereffects of the 1850 shipwreck that drowned Margaret Fuller and the crew of the Elizabeth. As a note at the end of the section explains, the contents of “Space Permitting” are collaged from drafts and notes Henry David Thoreau sent to Emerson and to Fuller’s friends and family in Concord after they sent Thoreau to recover her remains from the shipwreck on Fire Island and the manuscript of her recently completed History of the Italian Revolution, which was ultimately lost at sea. The section’s first of two epigraphs quotes a remark Fuller’s friends made to Emerson: “Well, on the whole, it was not so lamentable, & perhaps it was the best thing that could happen to her. For, had she lived, what could she have done?” The sentiment bluntly underscores that, in the 19th-century United States, the life of a married intellectual woman with a child was seen as impossible, a fate worse than death. The final stanza of the section begins: “I saw many leaves of a large un- / bound Latin book—scattered over the / beach a mile from the wreck …”

The experience of reading Concordance is akin to the work Thoreau set out to do: recollect manuscript pages and understand an ill-fated journey. In this case, the journey is intellectual, and it is heroic rather than ill-fated, rooted in the New England landscape where Howe has spent most of her life. In Concordance, it is as if a manuscript, along with the library used to write it, were both wrecked and then washed ashore, mostly lost, although what remains was carefully recombined and artfully reconstructed into something beautiful, monstrous, and new. In Howe’s poems, writing is a process of collecting. Concordance is a slim volume that documents the late concerns from a lifetime of reading, a life lived in literature and libraries, and it is written with the urgency of being perhaps a final book. “Trusting that as a helpful reader you will respond in your rabbit self. I have composed a careful and on one level truly meant narrative and on another level the Narrative of a Scissor,” Howe writes. You open it, read it. Cut it up if you’d like. Take what you will. It needn’t be difficult.

[smallpressdistribution]

"I remember I wanted to catalog the photographs, not to enliven them. I wanted the eeriness and the flatness of the photographs to be reproduced in my text. When you read about ekphrastic poetry it’s not uncommon to read something like, 'he turns the painting into a poem,' but it was much more like I was trying to turn my writing into a photograph."

We're so grateful for this conversation with Dorothy, a publishing project editor and co-publisher Dorothy Dutton, who speaks with John Vincler about Dutton's SPRAWL (Wave Books) and her inspiration from Laura Letinsky's photographs, up now at Music & Literature.

Find Dutton's book here:

https://www.spdbooks.org/Products/9781940696775/sprawl.aspx

[javierpenadea]

"Nick Cave Goes Underground" by BY JOHN VINCLER via NYT Arts https://ift.tt/yqfvRXW

[nytcorrection]

"Nick Cave Goes Underground" by John Vincler via NYT Arts https://ift.tt/yqfvRXW

[whatstheweather]

Kahlil Robert Irving Roves Across Millenniums at MoMA

By John Vincler The artist presents a vision of the contemporary in clay as a present-day Pompeii buried under an explosion of too much information. Published: March 23, 2022 at 03:08PM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/aS0s5Iz via IFTTT

[amyd]

Her lines surprised me and would later—gently, quietly—obsess me. They should be completely unremarkable. They are not made with anything like masterful virtuosity—I’m thinking of the tale of the fourteenth-century painter Giotto’s genius evidenced by a perfect circle drawn freehand (an act of protominimalism: he submitted only this red circle, while all his contemporaries submitted detailed drawings to win a commission from the Pope). Martin’s lines are likely made with the aid of a straightedge. They are not the singular autographic lines rooted in some primal mark-making impulse, like the penciled or crayoned lines in a Cy Twombly canvas. Martin’s lines are workmanlike. They are there to delineate where one color goes beside the next. From a distance, the bands of color perform their task of holding and reflecting light, imbuing it with color. Soft but seemingly perfect, they are ordered after some realized plan. But up close the lines quaver and wobble. Maybe the pencil lead broke here and the line was then started again thereafter. Martin’s lines breath, they document a moment of action done with purpose and—to purposely use an unadorned phrase—not a lot of fuss. They have humility. Hers is a minimalism with some blood in it—minimalism with a pulse. This is to say nothing of what an Agnes Martin painting is a painting of.

On Line: The Pulse of Agnes Martin, by John Vincler, via Paris Review 

[steven792]

On Excavation: The Paintings of Mark Bradford

On Excavation: The Paintings of Mark Bradford

John Vincler’s column “Brush Strokes” examines what is it that we can find in paintings in our increasingly digital world. 

Mark Bradford, Black Venus, 2005. © Mark Bradford (courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth) Photo: Bruce White

Writing about art is often linked to the timely—the current exhibition, the just-released catalogue. The need for an immediate response makes fast what should be…

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: What to See in N.Y.C. Galleries in November by Roberta Smith, Karen Rosenberg, Martha Schwendener, Holland Cotter, John Vincler and Travis Diehl

By Roberta Smith, Karen Rosenberg, Martha Schwendener, Holland Cotter, John Vincler and Travis Diehl Want to see new art in New York this weekend? Check out Edward Hopper in the Upper East Side, and don’t miss Arthur Dove’s visionary landscapes and Hilary Harkness’s jewel-like canvases in TriBeCa. Published: November 1, 2023 at 07:00AM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/5MBglHL via IFTTT

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: What to See in N.Y.C. Galleries in October by Will Heinrich, John Vincler and Max Lakin

By Will Heinrich, John Vincler and Max Lakin Want to see new art in New York this weekend? Check out “Chopped & Screwed” at White Cube on the Upper East Side or see figures by Rita and France-Lise McGurn in TriBeCa. And don’t miss Tetsuya Ishida’s finely rendered nightmares in Chelsea. Published: October 4, 2023 at 02:50PM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/n3cK9qi via IFTTT

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: What to See in N.Y.C. Galleries in September by Travis Diehl, Martha Schwendener, Jillian Steinhauer, Will Heinrich, John Vincler, Seph Rodney and Holland Cotter

By Travis Diehl, Martha Schwendener, Jillian Steinhauer, Will Heinrich, John Vincler, Seph Rodney and Holland Cotter Want to see new art in New York this weekend? Check out an exhibition at Mishkin Gallery that pays homage to Puerto Rican art. And at MoMA PS1, in Queens, two artists explore their Aymaran roots. Published: September 8, 2023 at 12:45AM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/HMg2uLz via IFTTT

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: When All the Art Is Green: Swiss Institute Takes On Climate Change by John Vincler

By John Vincler The artworks in “Spora,” a long-term exhibition in Manhattan, are easy to overlook, but they bring an acute awareness to the environment beyond the gallery doors. Published: August 31, 2023 at 01:41PM from NYT Arts https://ift.tt/rW7IUnk via IFTTT

[antonio-velardo]

Antonio Velardo shares: What to See in N.Y.C. Galleries in August by Martha Schwendener, Max Lakin, Jillian Steinhauer, Holland Cotter, Seph Rodney, Travis Diehl, Will Heinrich and John Vincler

By Martha Schwendener, Max Lakin, Jillian Steinhauer, Holland Cotter, Seph Rodney, Travis Diehl, Will Heinrich and John Vincler Want to see new art in New York this weekend? Check out diagrammatic paintings in Chelsea or Catharine Czudej’s fun house on the Upper East Side. And don’t miss Lap-See Lam’s first U.S. solo show on the East Village. Published: August 3, 2023 at 06:37PM from NYT Arts…

[nytcorrection]

"Nick Cave Goes Underground" by John Vincler via NYT Arts https://ift.tt/yqfvRXW

[javierpenadea]

"Shin Gallery Charms and Surprises With a Motley Collection" by BY JOHN VINCLER via NYT Arts https://ift.tt/bZ1Y3OW