Now is the time to rethink the relationship between race and representation. This is not about simply increasing the number of minority artists, critics, and art consumers, but a question of re-imagining what representation could look like when we think expansively through the affective parameters of race.
Tell Me A Story, I Dont Care If Its True is comprised of portraits of Black people made from colored pencil, graphite, and ink. These are not images of captureno one seems to acknowledge the viewers.
This is not an exhibit that insists on presenting wealth as loud and spectacular. Rather, wealth is what permits contemplation.
These are frantic times defined by uncertainty, emergency, and dread. Worse, there is seldom space for anything else. Johnson ’s drawings capture these heightened emotional states, but instead of producing catharsis, they keep viewers hanging in the air.
In the back room of JTT, held by subtle spotlights, there is a gathering of flesh: it is arranged package-like so that each side folds over to almost meet in the center, revealing a tender interior. This is Doreen Garners meditation on Black gender, a theorization that moves us toward multiple valences of enfleshment.
Sonya Clark illuminates the profound entanglement between our current moment and the Civil War by putting her body on the line.
PÒTOPRENS is a feast for the eyes. Occupying three floors at Pioneer Works in Brooklyn, the show brings together twenty-five contemporary artists working in different mediums in order to showcase Haitian art, much of which has not previously been displayed in the United States. This breadth is a deliberate curatorial choice; it reflects the city’s geography and the resultant microcosms of artistic communities, and is a confirmation of the vigor and aesthetic prowess of Haiti’s artists.
The sound of James Baldwin’s voice greets visitors first. It originates from a Victrola record player, unceremoniously placed on the floor in the back of the first room, which plays a 1932 recording on vinyl of Baldwin singing “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.”
The mood is somber and monumental. Blue ink washes over icebergs, enlarged strips of newsprint, and images of Black women.
Without many of its external markers, the phenomenology of time has been profoundly altered: we exist in a constant negotiation between realities and temporalities. In its excavation of memoryboth personal and collectiveMaureen Catbagans recent painting series plumbs the psychological space of this uncertainty.
Mulvey shows us that the power of the gaze operates by producing or reifying distance between the one who watches, who is presumed to have power, and the object of the gaze, who is assumed to lack it.
In its presentation of innocence that isn’t quite, Sable Elyse Smith makes criminality the absent center of the show; it haunts, but is not depicted.
What does history look like? Jacob Lawrence's series of fifteen prints on Toussaint L'Ouverture, displayed at DC Moore gallery, invites us to contemplate the complexities of a historiographic intervention within the context of aesthetics.
What we do see throughout Room for Living, however, are numerous forms of indebtednessto the canon and, importantly, to Satterwhites mother. Elements of Patricia suffuse the exhibit. The LED texts that surround several sculptures are made from her words and handwriting, the drawings of bathtub, penises on wheels, and shoes are taken from her notebooks.
Yukultji Napangati paints timelinesyellow and orange dots connected by undulations that curve and spiral, submerging the viewer within the immensity of a vibrating sea. Time through lines, and yet outside of time.
It's the green that really catches my eye; it forms the texture of the sitter's pants. As I keep looking, I notice other detailsthe couch cushions, the strong profile, the palm fronds in the background. The background is warm and diffuse, but rather than look at the viewer, the sitter is paying attention to somethinga phone?in his hands. This is a portrait of absorption; it is also one of intimacy. I'll be honest, the sitter reminds me of my brother.