Tag: Frank Auerbach

Solo Shows

Lexia Hachtmann’s surreal humanism

Contributed by Chunbum Park / The title of British-German painter Lexia Hachtmann’s solo exhibition “Waiting Room,” at YveYANG in Soho, alludes to David Lynch’s surrealist television series Twin Peaks, in which the “red room” or “waiting room” is an extradimensional space where time does not flow sequentially. The program ushered in the 1990s, when Hachtmann was born. In the moment, the nineties seemed to be the height of the American Century and still evoke nostalgia. Often overlooked is the fact that during this supposedly halcyon epoch, popular culture normalized homophobia, sexism, and racism more than it does now, even when Trumpist backsliding is taken into account. Hachtmann confronts this kind of slippage between memory and reality with subtlety and heart.

Solo Shows

Farrell Brickhouse: The beat goes on

Contributed by Jonathan Stevenson / Farrell Brickhouse’s recent paintings, on view at JJ Murphy Gallery, embody aging and stamina and the grungy inventiveness that comes with them. In these terms, perhaps the signature piece is Summers End II, tucked away all by itself in the gallery’s rear alcove. Just a foot-and-a-half square, it is a still life of Rauschenberg-grade grit that holds court, depicting what looks like a vase of motley flowers on a stand, waning but defiant in the face of time. Distressed as they are, they look not just alive but capable of aggression. The work is textured in the extreme, Brickhouse having affixed to the canvas the congealed detritus of students’ pigment and painted thickly around it. It’s as though Chaïm Soutine or Frank Auerbach had possessed Morandi and gone to town.

Solo Shows

The grit of Frank Auerbach

Contributed by Natasha Sweeten / As a young art student, I revered Frank Auerbach. His practice was a battle with inner demons, one of splayed brushstroke and open flesh that plunged deep into his psyche. The stories of him laboring countless hours on the same small portrait, painting and repainting, scraping it all off at day’s end – were they not the perfect embodiment of my own tortured soul? Were we not linked by artistic fury, the desire to express something frustratingly beyond our reach?