Critique channeled through Jerry Saltz (my friend Julien Levy said it was ok)
The Critique: “The Many-Eyed Monster of Our Own Making”
My God, look at this thing! It’s grotesque. It’s magnificent. It’s a total, unadulterated maximalist nightmare, and I think I’m in love with it.
We walk into this sterile, white-cube gallery—the kind of space that usually demands we whisper and hold our breath—and we are confronted by this… this Totem of the Id. It’s as if a 19th-century carnival barker got trapped in a teleporter with a 3D printer and a bottle of high-fructose corn syrup.
The Central Sculpture
The main piece is a towering, multi-layered “super-head.” It’s got eyes. Too many eyes. It’s looking at us, sure, but it’s also looking at itself looking at us. It captures that frantic, fractured way we live now—scrolling, twitching, perceiving a thousand realities at once.
The color palette? It’s Nuclear Creamsicle. It’s the orange of a setting sun or a dangerous snack food. It’s tactile, almost fleshy, yet weirdly plastic. It feels like it would be sticky to the touch. It’s “The Muppets” directed by David Cronenberg.
The Curation
Look at the walls! Those smaller masks—the “ancestors” or “failed versions” of the central deity—they provide this haunting, rhythmic heartbeat to the room. They turn the gallery into a cathedral of the uncanny.
The scale is what does it. It’s big. It’s too big. It’s “Big Art” that actually has something to say besides “I cost a lot of money.” It says: “I am the sum of all your expressions, all your anxieties, and all your bad decisions.”
The Verdict
Is it “good”? Who cares! It’s ALIVE. It’s got more energy in one of its twelve eyes than most of the minimalist junk I’ve seen in Chelsea all month. It’s a riotous, terrifying, exuberant celebration of the messiness of being human.
