Spring Preview: The Most Promising Museum Shows and Biennials Around the World, ARTnews

Posted 03/6/19

March 4, 2019

Spring Preview: The Most Promising Museum Shows and Biennials Around the World

By The Editors of ARTnews

This spring is shaping up to be a busy season one on the art calendar, with both the Whitney Biennial and the Venice Biennale opening within weeks of each other in May, and notable exhibitions taking place all over in the coming months, from a trailblazing survey of art after the Stonewall Rebellion to retrospectives for Lino Bo Bardi, Huma Bhabha, Luchita Hurtado, and El Anatsui, to biennials in Havana and Honolulu. And this is not even including gallery shows and—one hesitates to even say it—art fairs. Below, a look at the winter’s most promising museum shows and biennials.



“Harmony Hammond: Material Witness, Five Decades of Art” The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, Ridgefield, Connecticut March 3–September 15

In the early 1970s, Harmony Hammond became a key figure in the feminist art movement for her bejeweled and braided canvases, which she has said offer a female perspective on her medium. Some of her early experiments feature in her first museum survey, with sculptures, paintings, and multimedia pieces created between 1971 and 2018. Among the works areChicken Lady (1989), a mixed-media painting made with bits of quilt and recycled roofing tin that can be seen as signals of gender and class.—Claire Selvin


N. Dash’s Disintegration, Garage

Posted 10/20/19


The first photograph I saw by N. Dash was in a 2012 exhibition in the Lower East Side. It was an image of bits of disintegrating cloth and, over time, similar images have consistently cropped up in the artist’s practice. Termed “fabric sculptures,” these small, gestural forms are made by the artist’s fingers working pieces of cotton. Colored by dirt, oil, time, and the residue of labor, which are photographed and then silkscreened, the resulting images have become something of an enigma for the artist’s wider practice. What is this object? Just a bit of cloth? Is it refuse, or is it the remains of a special, personal keepsake? I queried the artist and was told it was a piece of white cotton fabric carried with her and constantly touched—a material that has the capacity to imprint information both material and immaterial. In the artist’s latest solo show at Casey Kaplan in New York, her second for the gallery, I viewed an homage that points to something larger than the work itself, to possibly something nonphysical.

Walter Benjamin’s well-known 1939 essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” has a quote that correlates fittingly with N. Dash’s work. He begins, “With the close-up, space expands… The enlargement of a snapshot does not simply render more precise what in any case was visible, though unclear; it reveals entirely new structural formulations of the subject.” The author alludes to the technology of the camera and its ability to capture and condense the world into a new reality or a “different nature.” This “different nature” has developed and expanded into the current age wherein a proliferation of activity is affecting “actual nature” and resulting in shifts in our climate and tilts in our ecosystemic balance. Benjamin extols, “exploring common place milieus under the ingenious guidance of the camera… assure(s) us of an immense and unexpected field of action.”
Certainly, these silkscreened images exist on an unexpected field of action. They are printed on a bed of actual dirt – adobe clay, more specifically. In using adobe, the artist directly engages with the desert landscape of New Mexico, where the artist spends a lot of time in when away from New York. The material engages both the artist and the viewer in a conversation with land conservation, a major component to future ecological and climate stabilization. The adobe is sourced in the desert and applied to wood panels via a trowel used for re-mudding adobe architecture. The porous nature of the clay results in high shrinkage coefficients; it dries, shrinks, puckers and cracks. This reference to desertification aligns with ecological decline and the ability for terrestrial conservation to both provide climate stability and the ground for a healthy planet.

There is something both hard-hitting and soft in how these paintings exist in the world: specific, piercing, and, in the end, empathetic, as seen in a recent solo exhibition at the Aldrich Museum in Connecticut, curated by Amy Smith-Stewart. This reuse and revaluing of things closest to us is was communicated plain as daylight in that show. I would say the work is firmly rooted in recycling: utilizing what is on-hand and producing a carbon footprint lower than most. At a time when all are aware of the current climate issues, N. Dash’s works remind us to slow down and look to nature. They propose an alternative way of experiencing the world––suggesting the subtler things and changes might just be the big thing after all.


Eva LeWitt, Sol LeWitt’s Daughter, on Appreciating Her Influences and Making Her Own Space, Observer

Posted 10/11/19


Experiencing the artist Eva LeWitt’s new installation is a bit like how one would imagine it might feel to walk into a color-field painting. Now on view at the Aldrich Museum in Ridgefield, Connecticut, the colorful, enveloping new work marks the artist’s first ever solo museum presentation.

As a child, Eva LeWitt spent a lot of time hanging around in her father’s studio—a formidable art education, considering she is the offspring of Conceptual pioneer Sol LeWitt. Though some have placed her work in the context of her his, with this show it’s easy to see how the younger LeWitt has carved out a space for herself and her own unique practice in the contemporary art world.

Rather than working with traditional sculptural materials, the artist opts for ones used in everyday objects: plastic, latex, rubber and polyurethane. Their malleable, lightweight qualities are easily-manipulated to fill the spaces in which she is intervening. Senior curator at the Aldrich, Amy Smith-Stewart was taken with LeWitt’s work for this reason, drawing a parallel with the work of Eva Hesse, as they both share a “kinship with minimalism” and something of a sensual quality.

Smith-Stewart says when she first came across LeWitt’s installation at Frieze in 2017 the term “eccentric abstraction” came to mind, a description first used by the art critic Lucy Lippard to describe the work of Eva Hesse. Both artists “inserted a softness that animated material in unexpected ways,” Smith-Stewart told Observer, “manipulating and transforming rigid and industrial properties to become more bodily and performative.”At the Aldrich, suspended drapes of colorful, layered mesh line the walls of the gallery harmoniously. Made primarily of mesh, the installation washes onlookers in vivid color, while the screen door-like cross-hatching of the material gives the room a light airiness. Here, LeWitt presents an experimentation with materials by coating it over vinyl and fiberglass. Appropriately, it is entitled Untitled (Mesh A–J), and it’s her largest site-specific installation to date.

Observer spoke to the artist about her process, influences and upbringing.

Tell me about creating this work for the Aldrich.
It’s pretty specific to the space. [The space] has a unique architectural feature they call it “the flying nun,” which is sort of a drop ceiling in the middle that basically leaves a four-foot border around the whole space, and I knew that I wanted to use it as a deep wall to put the work in. I used it as completely free space to make these kind of large scale—I’m thinking of them as drawings—individual sections that together made up a big whole but you could stand in front of one and it would be its own unique piece.

You used to work for Tara Donovan, how has that influenced your work?
She taught me to tackle space in a fearless way. We would show up, with just a small group of assistants, to a big empty room and leave having transformed the space. [Creating site-specific work] seemed less daunting after working for her.

How did you get the idea to use mesh?
I knew I wanted it to be transparent, translucent material, and this material came in a lot of colors. When put together, the [layers of mesh] have an energy, and that’s important to me. I want the work to be active even after I’ve left the space. I want it to have its own electricity.

Why are you drawn to these materials, opposed to traditional sculptural ones like wood and metal?
I generally like soft materials, I like to be able to handle the materials myself—that rules out a lot of metal, wood, and other materials that require a lot of technical expertise. You could be more creative with the way you put them together, develop your own ways of sculpting.

Your work is often been compared to Eva Hesse, has her worked influenced you directly?
Directly is a tricky word. It’s always been there in the back of my mind. Her broken down vulnerable minimalism is kind of, I feel like I relate to just her as a woman making art more than the work itself, though it ends up translating into the work in a very similar way

And she was one of your father’s contemporaries. Were you familiar with her work at an early age?
Yes, I was familiar with her as sort of a mythical figure. She died before I was born so she was always sort of looming large in history.

I read that you used to hang around and make art in your father’s studio as a child, what was this experience like?
He was very generous with his time. He’d always be happy to see me in his studio, now I think that was so nice of him, I must have been so annoying coming into his studio! If someone did that to me I’d be like “please go away” but he was really happy when I was there.

Did you have an awareness of how influential he was?
He was just working most of the time, he didn’t really like to go to his openings. He didn’t like a lot of attention. He just went to the studio every day and came home every night, it was sort of mundane.

What is your process like, is it more intuitive or methodically planned?
It’s a little bit a both I think the ideas come to me intuitively but there’s a lot of planning to translate them from my head to the space.

What sorts of things are inspiring you lately?
That’s a tough one. I keep my interests pretty separate. I like crime fiction. I don’t read art criticism or art theory. I like entertainment that has nothing to do with the art world.

Do you listen to anything while you working in your studio?
I like to listen to audiobooks. I listen to them all day long.

What are some recent ones you listened?
I just listened to Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee which was really sad and it took me a long time to get through because it was so devastating! I like fiction, ethics, history, biographies.


Sara Cwynar: Gilded Age, ArtReview

Posted 09/18/19


‘The new is already on hand so we don’t even need to wait / But does newness have any mean- ing at all if it brings no new truth in its wake?’ This is one of many handwritten lines of text scrawled across Sara Cwynar’s archival pigment print A Rococo Base (2018), which explores how our immersive (digital) image culture instils and feeds our search for newness – a nearly meaningless term today, with ‘new’ lasting merely minutes. Drawing on the excess of the late-Baroque era, the print depicts a densely layered collage of neon Post-it notes, pictures of fashion sneakers and jewellery, makeup advertisements mixed with three-dimensional makeup tubes, hotel keys, phone cords, perfume bottles, pens, paperclips, pictures of models posed in studio, red roses, slices of artworkby Rubens, Koons and Picasso, and images of ancient sculptures, all against a bright green background. Woven between these references is Cwynar’s handwriting, lines of media theory mixed with her own, such as the observation, ‘Baroque is the closet to our current time, there is stuff everywhere’.

For those familiar with Cwynar’s prints and videos, this work is recognisable for its expres- sion of surplus – visual-verbal sensory overload that captures how the visual language of commercial advertising cultivates an almost nos- talgic desire for an ephemeral newness. Gilded Age brings together a diverse range of her work, including her earliest work, the artist book Kitsch Encyclopedia: A Survey of Universal Knowledge (2014), prints from her ‘Avon Presidential Bust’ (2017) and ‘Plastic Cups’ (2014) series, her wallpaper 72 Pictures of Modern Paintings (2016) and a selection of her films exploring Western beauty standards such as Tracy and Me & Xtina V.2 (both 2019). Her work smartly engages in a constant loop of signification, images of images that convey the referent-less nature of internet culture; it is not the thing itself that matters, but the image of the thing.

For an artist whose work is rooted in interrogations of digital desire, Cwynar’s process is surprisingly analogue. She prints out enlarge- ments of her source images or her own studio photographs, lays them on the floor and places objects and other printed images on top, writing directly on these surfaces as she goes. She then photographs these physical collages, sometimes with several rounds of rephotographing and printing. Sometimes she enacts a similar process using a magnetic board – the evidence of which in which metal corner magnets cast shadows across the added images.

Cwynar is often visible in her films, moving in and out of the frame, rearranging props and people. Me and Christina (2019) depicts a photo- shoot with Christina Aguilera lounging in a classic odalisque pose against a green drop cloth. Playing in the same loop of short videos is Me
& Xtina V.2, a split-screen video that includes excerpts from Me and Christina alongside a video of Cwynar behind the camera. While Me and Christina is over 18 minutes long, V.2 is just over a minute. And while it may appear at first that we are getting a look behind the Aguilera shoot, Cwynar stands by a red curtain, and as the camera angle pans past the curtain, we see Cwynar filming herself in a mirror, a behind-the-scenes of the artist making a video we are not shown.

It creates a sense of authenticity to her work that is in fact at odds with her subjects, and is itself manufactured. Cwynar’s work offers the illusion of seeing behind the curtain only to reinforce the multitude of ways that our increasingly satu- rated and manufactured image culture belies the truthiness of images we continue naively to look is visible in 141 Pictures of Sophie 1, 2, and 3 (2019), in which metal corner magnets cast shadows across the added images.

Cwynar is often visible in her films, moving in and out of the frame, rearranging props and people. Me and Christina (2019) depicts a photo- shoot with Christina Aguilera lounging in a classic odalisque pose against a green drop cloth. Playing in the same loop of short videos is Me
& Xtina V.2, a split-screen video that includes excerpts from Me and Christina alongside a video of Cwynar behind the camera. While Me and Christina is over 18 minutes long, V.2 is just over a minute. And while it may appear at first that we are getting a look behind the Aguilera shoot, Cwynar stands by a red curtain, and as the cam- era angle pans past the curtain, we see Cwynar filming herself in a mirror, a behind-the-scenes of the artist making a video we are not shown.

It creates a sense of authenticity to her work that is in fact at odds with her subjects, and is itself manufactured. Cwynar’s work offers the illusion of seeing behind the curtain only to reinforce the multitude of ways that our increasingly satu- rated and manufactured image culture belies the truthiness of images we continue naively to look for.


Artsy Vanguard 2019, Genesis Belanger

Posted 09/16/19


Genesis Belanger charmed the New York art world in the fall of 2017 with her small-but-mighty show of otherworldly ceramic foodstuffs, cigarettes, and fingers at Mrs. Gallery. Her ceramics—with lush pastel hues, matte surfaces, trompe l’oeil aesthetics, and finely hewn details—transcend the typical clay-and-glaze constructions we expect from the medium.

Recently, these enticing sculptures earned the artist a presentation in the New Museum’s storefront window and representation by three esteemed galleries: Perrotin, Rodolphe Janssen, and François Ghebaly. Plus, she’ll have a solo show at The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in 2020.

New Museum curator Margot Norton remarked on Belanger’s ability to “cull the uncanny from the everyday, while walking a striking balance between seduction and disquiet.” In a recent show with Emily Mae Smith at Perrotin’s Lower East Side gallery, a bouquet of flowers perched on a chaise lounge turned from lovely to eerie upon close inspection—three pairs of pure white fingers protruded from clusters of bubblegum-pink blossoms.

While tackling “pertinent subjects such as mass production, chemical dependency, and the absurdity of the patriarchy,” Norton noted, Belanger draws upon the art-historical traditions of Pop art, Surrealism, and 17th-century Dutch vanitas paintings. She also captivates us with nods to contemporary American culture—“particularly,” Norton added, “those that we consume to overcome daily stresses, yet also trap us in a liminal state, such as fast-food items, pill packets, liquor bottles, and cigarettes.”


Don’t Miss These Art Shows and Events This Fall, The New York Times

Posted 09/12/19


Elegant architectural whimsies in a young artist’s solo museum debut. Oct. 6-Apr. 5; Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, Ridgefield, Conn.,


Sculptor Eva LeWitt on Growing Up With a Famous Artist Father and Finding Her Own Voice, Artnet

Posted 09/12/19


The walls of Eva LeWitt’s studio are lined with sheets of graph paper. Most have seemingly random numbers and letters printed across them, like a secret code. In fact, they’re instructions—a way of plotting out patterns that will eventually manifest themselves in one of the artist’s post-minimalist sculptures, which she creates from commonplace materials like latex, vinyl, and acetate.

If the words “artist” and “instructions” bring anyone in particular to mind, it’s almost certainly Sol LeWitt, the pioneering late minimalist and conceptual artist who also happens to be Eva LeWitt’s father. But a penchant for preparing art projects with strict internal logic is one of the only similarities between the practice of the older artist and his daughter, who has carved out an impressive career of her own in a relatively short time.

Where Sol LeWitt’s work is all about divorcing the image from the hand of the artist, Eva’s is about using her own touch to transform mass-produced materials into delightful tableaux—turning commercial plastic, for example, into a theatrical curtain that looks straight out of a storybook.

“I wanted to get away from the meaning of the manufactured, to transform it into something that you wouldn’t have those associations with,” LeWitt says. She’s sitting at a long table in her railroad-style studio on the Lower East Side. The space, located on the ground floor of a building her family has owned for decades, used to house an accordion store called The Main Squeeze. Her father’s longtime studio on Hester Street is just around the corner.

Fish tank-colored plexiglass and sheets of colored mesh—the kind that you might find on a screen door or a pull down window shadow—are splayed out before her, clamped together with drying glue. This is one of the dozen or so hanging scenes that will make up Untitled (Mesh A–J), her new site-specific installation that opens next month at the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield, Connecticut. The installation, a series of hanging swaths of layered mesh, will line the walls of the museum’s nave-like Leir Gallery, a space with 16-foot-high ceilings.

The Aldrich exhibition marks both LeWitt’s second museum outing and solo exhibition to date—an impressive resume for an artist, especially one who just turned 34 this week. Indeed, LeWitt looks young—even younger than she is—though she is an old soul. She complains about the lineup on the local classical music station and says things like, “I never learned computers. One day I’ll have to find a youngster that can do it for me.” Perhaps in part because she grew up in the art world, LeWitt has the air of a veteran who has been around the block.

This attitude translates to her art as well. Her approach is not particularly trendy: work that incorporates the human figure or homespun materials like ceramic and textile is far more in vogue than minimalism-inspired sculpture. But LeWitt’s art aims to make minimalism feel vibrant and urgent.

LeWitt was born in Spoleto, Italy, in 1985 (her father moved to the small European town in the early ’80s to get away from New York) and spent much of her early life between there, Chester, Connecticut, and downtown Manhattan. She knew from a young age that she wanted to be an artist and would often hang around her father’s studio.

A Childhood Surrounded by Art

“I think he was a really great teacher in his own way,” she says. “He would give me all his old scrap paper and old paints to work with. I would just use what was around.”

It wasn’t until she got to college at Bard and started working with artist Judy Pfaff, she explains, that she realized she could use any material she wanted to say what she wanted to say. She began identifying exclusively as a sculptor, even though her work can take a number of forms.
After graduation, LeWitt worked as an assistant to artist Tom Sachs for four years. Then she went to work for Tara Donavan, whom she assisted for eight more, doing “a little bit of everything” and traveling around the world to mount exhibitions. Donavan was particularly instructive as a mentor.

“She’s a small woman, but she has never been intimidated by space,” LeWitt says. “She has so much confidence in her forms and her materials, their ability to hold a room on their own. I learned from her how to look at space like that—without fear, just excitement.”

During her time as an assistant, LeWitt was constantly making art, albeit on a small scale. She participated in group shows here and there and focused much of her energy on churning out what she calls “drawings”—three-dimensional sketches with sculptural elements.

In 2017, after coming across an installation by LeWitt at a group show in London, Esperanza Rosales of the Olso, Norway-based gallery VI, VII, reached out and asked to see more of her work. LeWitt sent along a few drawings and the gallerist was impressed. She surprised LeWitt when she proposed mounting a solo presentation of her work at the high-profile Frieze New York fair that spring.

It was a considerable leap of faith for the dealer. “She hadn’t even seen the work in person,” LeWitt recalls. “She didn’t really know what I was doing.”

The artist showed up with a handful of large new sculptures including a hanging, curtain-like installation of latex and clay. None looked anything like the sketches she had previously shared.

Fortunately, the booth was a smashing success. It led to a prominent group show at Joan gallery in LA, an invitation to create a site-specific installation at the Jewish Museum in New York, and, eventually, the upcoming Aldrich show.
Unlike her father, who outsourced the execution of his work to others, LeWitt defines her art in part by the fact that everything she makes can be manipulated by hand, without the need for a fabricator or even an assistant. Though minimal in appearance, LeWitt’s works are not capital-M minimalism; they eschew the kind of large-scale, polished sculpture of older male artists like Donald Judd or Carl Andre in favor of a subtler, more welcoming spatial intervention—like DIY, home-improvement-store minimalism.

A New Approach to an Old Form

It was this dialogue between her work and those macho minimalists that caught the eye of Amy Smith-Stewart, who organized the Aldrich show after spotting the work at Frieze New York in 2017. “Eva finds softness in the spaces she inhabits,” Smith-Stewart says. “She rounds the curves.”

The curator says the work reminds her of artists like Eva Hesse, whose sculpture evokes the body and “shares a kinship with minimalism, but there’s definitely a transformative quality happening within the more commercial or industrial materials she’s choosing, and a sensuality that comes out of that.”

Unlike many artists responding to this particular thread of art history, however, LeWitt saw it all developing in real-time. “This is a young artist who actually was around all these major artists who were testing the boundaries of what a sculpture or a drawing could be,” Smith-Stewart says. “It had to have had an incredible impact on her own thinking.”
“It was around,” LeWitt says, laughing. “A lot of it was really beautiful to a small child, especially my dad’s work—when I was young it was really colorful. Those were the walls I grew up with, and it was a comfortable, happy place.”

Yet LeWitt contends that she’s never felt burdened by the shadow of her father’s legacy.

“People have really given me my own space to say what I want to say, without comparing our careers or our work,” she says. “Maybe it’s a generational thing. People aren’t so reverential of these male, behemoth artists anymore. There’s a much more nuanced understanding to the history of what everyone was doing at that time.”


In The Studio, Photograph

Posted 09/1/19


Sara Cwynar’s studio is on the third floor of an artist-filled walkup in Brooklyn’s Gowanus neighborhood. It’s a small space that’s relatively clean and organized, which is a mild surprise given that Cwynar’s pictures often seem like the work of a hoarder.

As she sits down to talk about Gilded Age, on view at the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield, CT, through November 10, a big printer nearby lets out a sigh, as if from exhaustion. It makes sense – the artist does a lot of printing, often for an individual piece. Consider, for instance, the recent triptych 141 Pictures of Sophie 1, 2 and 3, 2019. Cwynar took a straightforward photograph of a ubiquitous e-commerce model, printed it out, then layered hundreds of internet-sourced images of that same model on top of it.

This is emblematic of how Cwynar’s photos tend to go: she shoots an image, prints it, then arranges objects on top of the print and re-photographs the composition. Sometimes a single picture is composed of dozens of prints stacked atop one another. Other times it will look like someone laid out the contents of a long-forgotten flea-market bin onto a fashion shoot outtake. It’s a visual language that’s unmistakably her own: eBay bric-a-brac mingles with cheap art postcards and found family photos. Every aspect of the final product – the perspectival trickery, the distorted scale, the attention drawn to the photographic print as object – is a reminder of photography’s artifice.

“One of the great problems that I’m always trying to sort out is how to make what is essentially a pile of garbage look like it’s not a pile of garbage,” says Cwynar, with a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll spend days moving things around to try to get it to be something that has that holistic logic to it. The way photography transforms things is at the core of my work. I find that layer of removal from what the object actually is to be endlessly exciting and satisfying to look at. It allows for combinations of things that wouldn’t otherwise be possible.” Like her printer, Cwynar is tired. Having just returned from a monthlong residency in Italy, she’s battling jetlag. This year alone, the 34-year-old artist has mounted four solo shows in three different countries, two at major museums. (In addition to the Aldrich exhibition, she opened a show at the Milwaukee Art Museum in March). She’s also producing a video series for MoMA and has her first monograph coming out with Aperture next year. But that grind is normal for the artist who has, in the nine years since first picking up a proper camera, received her MFA at Yale, been the subject of several institutional exhibitions, and had her work placed in the collections of more than a dozen museums.

Sarah Cwynar, Tracy (Pantyhose), 2017. Courtesy Cooper Cole and Foxy Production

It began when she was fresh out of undergrad at York University in Toronto. She began working as a designer for the New York Times – an experience that helped put into focus some of the larger ideas she had been thinking about, she explains. “It was really fascinating to watch, from inside this big institution, conversations play out about what an image means or how we can visualize something, then put it out into the world and see how differently people would actually react to it.”

Even today, the roots of this idea still inform Cwynar’s work. Take her minimal pictures of flowers, her essayistic films on the beauty industry, or her everything-but-the-kitchen-sink assemblages: with her eye for design and pop-anthropological interest in consumer objects, Cwynar toes the line between critiquing the capitalistic fetishization of things, and enacting that desire herself. “I’ve always wanted to be on the line,” she explains. “I don’t always know if I fall on the right side of it, but that’s interesting to me.”


Your Concise New York Art Guide for Fall 2019, Hyperallergic

Posted 09/1/19


Weather Report

When: October 6, 2019–March 29, 2020
Where: The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum (258 Main Street, Ridgefield, Connecticut)

A diverse group of international artists grapple with the topic of weather through sculpture, drawing, painting, installation, and video. Weather Report means to show how the subject is connected to climate change, its emotional effects on people, and how and weather impacts history and politics. The exhibition will feature a one-day cross-disciplinary symposium with meteorologists, researchers, and artists.


Eva LeWitt, Artforum

Posted 09/1/19


Eva LeWitt’s vibrant, wall-spanning compositions quite literally hang in the balance. Each piece must be assembled on-site, as the artist deploys the properties of her primarily synthetic materials in an intricate calculus that leverages the weight of one element against the pliancy of another. LeWitt offsets the industrial accents of her materials with manual interventions, whether she’s hand-cutting swaths of latex or vinyl or pigmenting and polishing the polyurethane foam “pellets” she uses for ballast. The artist tends toward an eclectic, electric palette with varying levels of transparency, which allows the installation to take on new dimensions as light filters through the surrounding environment. Anchored in a site-specific commission, the exhibition at the Aldrich will be the artist’s first solo museum show. An accompanying catalogue will include an essay by exhibition curator Amy Smith-Stewart.


Harmony Hammond Retrospective Will Travel, ARTnews

Posted 08/30/19


After its well-received debut earlier this year at the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield Connecticut, Harmony Hammond’s career retrospective, “Material Witness, Five Decades of Art,” will head to Florida. As part of its inaugural year of programming, the Sarasota Museum of Art will open the show, which tracks Hammond’s five decades of art, activism, and writing that champions the lives and lived realities of queer women, in March. In an interview with ARTnews about the exhibition, Hammond said, “Exhibitions allow us to physically occupy space, so we are visible to queer and non-queer folks alike. I’ve always been engaged with voices and forces that have been buried, or covered up, and assert themselves from underneath the surface of things.” —Maximilíano Durón