I'd like to liken Ramaya Tegegne’s contribution to a dream that I [might as well have] had, in which Maria Callas did guest
vocals on an unreleased Wu-Tang Clan album. I would like to, but it wouldn’t
(most likely) be quite right. Bjarne Melgaard’s hilarious work here seems a fever
dreamy exercise in parental prayer, and is somewhat reminiscent of recently deceased
memes. What heroic palpitations can we sense at the center of these artists’
dark hybridity? Have they twisted colorful chunks of the terrestrial into a
semi-transcendent critique of aesthetic paramountcy, and thus avoided the trite
death at the center of hackneyed ideologies’ colonization of a collective
imagination already marred by an overdose of faux-jouissance? Probably not, to
be honest—but it does the heart some good to hope so. Luminous blotches of
semi-sub-ideational creation, the works in Some Gallerists manifest as a stunned
array of graceful waitresses, no? A cherubic fool, I’ve let the show’s
multifariousness arouse my awareness of overlooked actualities that undergird
everyday sites of public rituality. One of Max Brand’s beautiful
contributions (a boom boxy thing dressed in a plastic bag tank top) seems to me
to concern itself with the Then in the
midst of the Now, and with the Ins and Outs of the Odds and Ends of the impenetrable legacies aplenty.
Ramaya Tegegne
Max Brand
Bjarne Melgaard
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