By Ciara LaVelle
By Jose D. Duran
By Kat Bein
By Juan Barquin
By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
"Mattresses" distills what she refers to as "the cruel game of seduction" onto the space of a mattress where she carouses conceptually between objects and words without bouncing into the gutter.
The exhibit features the scarred interiors of bed mattresses, embroidered, jaggedly cut, or punctured by sewing pins to spell out phrases uttered in the throes of passion.
Instead of in-your-face, spank-me-I've-been-naughty sarcasm that the subject matter begs for, one encounters a muted, seemingly surgically antiseptic commentary on the sex act.
Upon entering the gallery, one sees In-Out, a labor-intensive mattress piece hanging on a wall, pierced with hundreds of sewing pins. A closer examination of the foamy material's undulating topography reveals that the pins actually spell out the words of the title on the seedy surface. The artist has stuck the pins into alternating bubbles of bed guts, which bear a striking resemblance to the diamond tuck upholstery favored by classic car junkies. An IN appears here and an OUT there, over and over as if conveying instructions to a fumbling lover.
Another mattress work, Don't Stop, features the title stitched repeatedly across the surface in red thread, and one senses the artist is attempting to cryptically negotiate love's brittle tension wires.
Jumping from mattress to mattress, one can safely assume that if Candiani doesn't cut loose with the moves and vocabulary, she may run the risk of being ditched by the spectator.
A series of works made up of embroidered bed sheets and pillows sporting embroidered cases seems downright frigid compared with the brawnier mattresses soaked in their histories of hidden secrets. Three pristine white cotton sheets are folded lengthwise and hung vertically on the gallery walls like limp banners. Their matching pillows are displayed at the bottom of each sheet, floating on invisible supports at knee level. One gets the impression the arrangement might have been conceived by a frustrated housewife spending her time at a sewing circle, hoping to send the hubby a subliminal message. One set is embroidered in gold lamé thread with the words more, more; a second in shimmering silver strands with oh my God; the last simply reads please scrawled in pure white string each phrase betraying the corresponding titles of what seem to be starched Martha Stewart spinoffs.
Love Hurts comprises a suite of ten doormat-size digital prints, arranged chronologically near the entrance, depicting what the artist refers to as a dialogue between a knife, a bed, and a heart. The series unfolds the sequential imagery of a woman's hand clutching a serrated steak knife as she stabs a mattress, perilously close to what appears to be a child's necklace or a soap-on-a-rope doohickey in the shape of a pink heart. Walking from image to image, one observes the hand, the knife, and the heart from multiple angles, as if the artist is trying to narrate a story that plays out in a maudlin haze rather than threatening undertones.
On a wall across the room, a syrupy digital print featuring a closeup of a white cushion with a skin-color Band-Aid on it made me wonder whether the artist might be suffering from bed head or if the gallery's curator was asleep at the wheel.
Disposed the most visceral work in the show may reflect the artist's spin on abusive relationships, infidelity, or wife-battering. Multiple pockets of the flayed bedding have been slashed vertically with a knife and propped open with small wooden rods, giving the gaping flaps the appearance of a vagina probed by a speculum. Only a closer inspection of the invasive wooden pegs, covered by barely perceptible words, shows that the flesh-tone orifices are vacant, disposed, submissive, reusable, facile, elastic, or oozy, and it becomes clear the gashes that the pegs inhabit are perhaps reminiscent of defensive wounds suffered by victims of domestic violence. This piece convinces that the artist can saw at the innards and make a compelling statement when she wishes, rather than safely play the field, forcing viewers to moan for more.
"Sweet Basil," a group exhibition at the Bernice Steinbaum Gallery, spotlights its stable and features photography, sculpture, paintings, drawings, multimedia works, video, and installations in a tidy survey of the space's program.
In the elevator, the spectator encounters Teresa Diehl's untitled Plexiglas installation encasing two large flat-screen TV sets projecting a DVD loop from opposing walls. The stunning work portrays a flock of white-feathered finches, blown up to the size of seagulls that appear to be dive-bombing.
As one sits on the provided bench, the sound of an electronically simulated heartbeat echoes as the amplified flutter of wings and twitter of birds resonate loudly, heightening the sense one is stuffed in a birdcage. The artist who built a huge enclosure for the finches and filmed them from inside the structure captures a sense of Hitchcock's The Birds, almost prompting the viewer to protect one's eyes from the red-beaked peckers buzzing frantically overhead.