I regret to inform you that Montreal’s little slice of kitsch heaven, Barbie Expo (or Expo Barbie en français), has gone to seed. Sure, when I first visited the supposed largest Barbie exhibition in the world, its host, the mall Les Cours Mont-Royal, didn’t exactly live up to its PR promise to “redefine the meaning … Continue reading
Pretty girl, pretty, pretty giiiiirrlll…Let’s lose ourselves, sell The Beach Boys a song, and then kill everyone magnetism radiates from Charles Manson’s silent, penetrating psycho stare. I can hear “Cease to Exist,” the original version of Charlie’s penned Beach Boys tune, eventually rejigged to turn down the nutto nihilist energy into “Cease to Resist,” on … Continue reading
A thick, saliva-soaked globule of masticated green gum peeled off a spit-swapping chewing gum-covered painting and hit the shiny gallery floor with a sickening thwack. There, it joined another sopping ball of rapidly stiffening, increasingly pink, red gum, another fallen attempt to participate in Academy Award-winning actor-turned-artist Adrien Brody’s chewing gum painting, part of his … Continue reading
Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Immediately upon entering Krzysztof Strzelecki’s solo exhibition Rendezvous at Anat Ebgi, my ears pricked up at the splish-splash of watery drippy-droppings trickling out at a heroically steady stream. The constant dribble sounded like some derelict crept into the gallery for a sneaky whizz in a corner. Unlikely, sure, but it’s not as … Continue reading
At my first stop during a recent Tribeca gallery stroll, I was nearly knocked out by workmen hoisting a humungous heavy steel beam down the stairs of Andrew Kreps Gallery’s location in the piss-soaked Cortlandt Alley. Barely missing a good, hard conk to the noggin was nowhere near as frightening as being trapped, alone, in … Continue reading
“Before you go in,” a tired-eyed older security guard stopped me at the entrance of the black tortoise-shaped screening room for Nan Goldin’s new slideshow Stendhal Syndrome, part of her current exhibition, You never did anything wrong, at Gagosian, “you have to put one of these on your phone camera.” These being, as the guard shuffled … Continue reading
So many galleries, so little time. The reviews that actually make it onto this website, dearest Filthy Dreams readers, are only an itsy fraction of the excruciating, shoulder-popping exertion of heaving open countless, heavy-ass gallery doors. Don’t you wish you could come with us on these art excursions? Well, wish no longer! Swanson Kuball gallerist … Continue reading
Take the watch. Pocket it. Nobody, not even the nit-pickiest gallery worker, will notice it’s missing. Until too late, that is. It’s barely noticeable anyway, plunked at the edge of a puddle of shucked clothes—a crumpled Van Heusen suit, a snaked tie, itty black undies tucked into dress pants, and brown leather shoes due for … Continue reading
“Lypsinka Suffers Nervous Collapse!” So screams the trashy rag headline from the Los Angeles Tribune that spins dizzily into frame at the beginning of Lypsinka: Toxic Femininity, a 43-minute film directed by Chloë Sevigny and currently screening on The New Group Off Stage’s website (until February 16 so watch it fast!). The report of a … Continue reading
Did you know that you have to massage baby hedgehogs’ tiny genitals in order to get them to shit? Me neither, until attending a walkthrough with artist Thordis Adalsteinsdottir of her current exhibition Some of It May Have Started at the River at Nunu Fine Art. I don’t bring up this hedgehog-rearing tip just to … Continue reading