Of Variable Quality: A Review of Five Manhattan Art Shows

IRL Gallery in Lower Manhattan typically demonstrates superior taste in the artists it exhibits. This fact explains why my recent visit was so disappointing. On display was the work of Gigi Rose Gray, alongside two other figurative painters whose work was, in contrast, significantly less unpleasant to look at.
Gray’s paintings immediately struck me as amateurish and unpolished, marked by many technical errors. Her understanding of figure painting and facial anatomy appears limited. As a result, I was distracted by the ugliness produced by her crude brushwork and misshapen ears and noses.
One might argue, “What if that was her intention?” I highly doubt her aim was to produce paintings that resemble those of a poorly-trained art school sophomore. There is a distinct difference between intentional departures from naturalistic depictions and mistakes. After thoroughly examining her work, I concluded these were errors rather than stylistic choices. She was probably trying to accomplish technical feats she did not understand how to execute.
However, after reviewing Gray’s work on her website and Instagram, I considered that her style might indeed be a deliberate, albeit tasteless, choice. Her older works show figures that intentionally deviate from naturalism, reminiscent of some of David Hockney’s work. Yet in her recent work, these departures appear to be — and probably are — mistakes.
Tin Nguyen knows what to do with paint. His solo show at Auxier Kline impresses not just because of his technical mastery but because his work feels essentially free of “mistakes.” All galleries should aspire to this level of refinement in their exhibitors, a standard Auxier Kline consistently meets.
Nguyen’s paintings captivate with two striking qualities: their lusciousness and sensuousness. His brushstrokes have a distinct form and texture that’s immensely satisfying, paired with an exquisite grasp of color theory evident in the pieces of light and shadow that make up objects, fabrics and skin. These colors and forms interact, creating a mood that engenders pleasurable sensations in the viewer’s mind.
Like many prominent figure painters today, Nguyen’s work is “queer.” Some of his paintings show intimate, sexually suggestive images of men’s crotches (tastefully covered). The queer aspects feel incidental rather than central, appearing in only a few works. The influence of the great American abstract realists of the 20th century, Richard Diebenkorn and Fairfield Porter, is much more pronounced than any political or identity concerns.
At a different time, such sexual imagery would have been radical, brave or liberating. Today, queer art denotes a certain social status among the intellectual and artistic elite — a group sociologist Musa Al-Gharbi calls “symbolic capitalists.” Nguyen participated in another recent Auxier Kline show titled, “Queer Naturalism.” The show was meant to explore “queer identity in nature.” In that exhibit, his work again read as incidentally queer, with a gay man merely in a painting or having made a painting that was not discernibly queer in any other way.
I doubt that, when we look back on this period’s great queer figurative art, it will be remembered for the sake of its queerness.
Sky Glabush’s immense paintings at Stephen Friedman are magical. The radiant suns in many of his pieces cast cosmic, psychedelic rays over oceans and through forests. His largest works are truly mammoth, perhaps the biggest I’ve seen recently.
Glabush achieves a unique texture by mixing sand into his paint, complementing the intensity of his colors. The texture almost looks like concrete, yet it only serves to soften the paintings, making them look more playful and inviting.
His outdoor scenes evoke the wonder a child feels exploring the woods, an impression especially pronounced in one of his darker forest interiors. I was unsurprised to learn the show’s title refers to a Seamus Heaney poem called, “Alphabets,” in which a child learns the alphabet from tree branches. Glabush masterfully conveys this feeling without using words or overt narrative symbols.
It’s no wonder Glabush draws from influences like Kirchner, Munch and Kupka, masters at evoking emotion through form and color. Rather than imparting ideas, these artists aimed to provide viewers with mystical, ineffable and emotional experiences — experiences Glabush provides to his viewers upon first glance.
Almine Rech gallery, the location of Alexandre Lenoir’s massive solo show, is in an impressive stretch of galleries across several Lower Manhattan blocks. The gallery space is open, with high ceilings and light pouring in.
The paintings, which appear ordinary online, are, in fact, made with painted tape on canvas. When I approached them, I was shocked because I had expected a flat surface. Instead, the surface of some of his paintings looked like a piñata. While I don’t think this detracts from his work, I’d have been equally impressed if they were simply painted on flat canvas.
The colors in his huge paintings are phenomenal and surprisingly original, given we live in an era when nearly everything has been done in painting. Some of his paintings look like inverted color photographs or heat maps of landscapes and interiors. This produces bold, rich, complementary colors. Less saturated analogous colors surround them, creating a subtle composition.
The gallery’s description of Lenoir’s work was overly philosophical. Instead of discussing the art’s appearance, the description offered a new (and unnecessary) concept to explain how Lenoir’s use of gallery assistants to complete his paintings is actually a revolutionary conceptual innovation. By not making the work himself, his paintings become “metaphysical.”
Some nods are given to the colors in his paintings, but little effort is put into explaining why those colors are interesting. However, I will grant credence to the lengthy explanation of his process because, without it, his paintings would probably look somewhat different.
Samantha Joy Groff’s apocalyptic paintings are dominated by red and blue atmospheres. Young rural women in revealing tops and cut-off jeans contort their bodies in dramatic forest scenes, embodying narratives inspired by the Bible’s tragic imagery. These pieces capture the turbulence of the women’s inner lives.
Groff’s work feels both timeless and timely. In an era when the concerns of conservative working-class white men have more sympathy, the artist turns the attention of those concerns to the wives, daughters and sisters of those men. The struggles associated with social decay, the crisis of addiction and the epidemic of loneliness so often seen as male issues are depicted in highly theatrical terms by women in the same social and economic class as men who are so often the subject of pity.
It is fitting that Groff uses religious themes to portray the struggles of rural white communities; after all, they overwhelmingly hold deep religious convictions. By using stories of possession and armageddon, she explores existential struggles as these women literally cling to each other amid myriad crises that only ancient religious narratives and mythical concepts can truly represent. Fentanyl Jesus, as commented by the critic Francesca Anton, depicts this possession as the “chokehold” that “these women are wrestling” with.
Christian narratives make sense to graft onto the personal upheaval many Americans live with today. When I reflect on Groff’s paintings, I think of William Blake’s illustrations of the Book of Job, a story that teaches us about the universality and inevitability of tragedy. Even if the exact losses Job suffers are not the same as ours, we relate to him because we know that we, too, will someday encounter catastrophe, pain, grief and loss.
[Lee Thompson-Kolar edited this piece.]
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.