“Things Fall Apart” opens this evening at the Winkleman Gallery in Chelsea. Ten artists round out this exhibit centered on the current state of global dysfunction.
“Implosion (6)” (above), an oil painting by Christopher Lowry Johnson shows a building in the midst of being demolished. The impressionistic style of the piece reminds the viewer of the painter in the field taking time to develop the surface based on light and color data collected over time. The clash of style with content makes for a very powerful work.
The show offers a variety of messages from dead serious to deadpan. “G8-The Brooms (Contamination)” (below), from Mounir Fatmi is a humorous take on what may be needed to set things right in world politics. It is a tongue in cheek production with the serious message of putting differences aside in favor of cooperative endeavor.
Edward Winkleman has relinquished the curatorial reigns for this gathering of artworks to Joy Garnett. Her inclusion “River (5)” (below) is a wonderful look at a molten sprawl of light.
Also included in the show are pieces from Stephen Andrews, Paul Chan + The Front, Yevgeniy Fiks, Susan Hefuna, Carlos Motta, Renata Poljak and Susan Silas.
Things Fall Apart
16 January – 21 February 2009
The title for the group exhibit was pulled from a 1920 verse by Yeats which I’ve included after the jump. It is a great vision of the good that inevitably arises from bad.
THE SECOND COMING
By W.B. Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre,
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?