I attended a handful of gallery openings on Saturday evening in the general environs of what one might perhaps start calling West Bushridge, or Greater Ridgewick, or Wilshridge, or Wilckwood, or with a fair amount of L-tenuated stretch—and maybe comely gravitas—Jekalb’s Morgue.
Or should one tend rather toward the goofy than the grave, Bill’s Bushwood might be an insertable fit, a proper nominal straddling of sundry properties from just west of Johnson to the northeast tip of Himrod.
Puns on some names have been ripe for some time.
Anyway, the hell. Border disputes. Facts on grounds. While condos and their ilk will eventually be crammed into all available nooks all the same. And the produce selection at Associated Supermarket will continue to improve, diversify, inflate.
Wait, how about Flushing Saddlestraps? That’s fetching. Call it that. It rings a bit equestrian, a bit anachronistic, a bit Downton Abbey, a bit…
Whatever. All extant names are fine enough as they stand, not least given their broader county-spanning monikers pertaining to Kings and Queens.
So, onward. The evening’s saunters carried on from East Williamsburg to Ridgewood, then terminated in Bushwick. And they began with an encounter with a discarded, or perhaps defeated, post-Alf-ine gargantoid, an androidal Shrek of sorts, a Voltron reject. They then led to openings at Slag Contemporary and Interstate Projects at 56 Bogart, then out to a space-christening exhibit and reception at Parallel Art Space. The visits ended later on with a final encounter of a much more somber sort, one with two rooms displaying Andrew Hurst’s newest array of mystique-steeped artworks at English Kills. I’ll have more to say about this latter exhibit later this week.
For now, below are some images from all above-mentioned spaces. All glimpsed in the zones of these devil-may-name-them places.
- One of the evening’s more piquant talking points was Narcissister’s performance at Interstate Projects, which did ultimately feature an endo-cum-exo-vaginal answering of a cellphone. That aside, it was also a performative coup that merged flawlessly the amusing with the haunting, the political with the erotic, the Venus-of-Willendorfian with the pole-less pole-dance-like. One’s greater ponderings were of the masks, which sent shudders.
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