If engaging in the mortal game of Frogger required to traverse Bushwick Avenue where it junctures with Jefferson wasn't an easy enough way to glimpse something along the lines of death on Saturday night, it became even easier upon arrival at the Bobby Redd Project Space, where the opening of its inaugural exhibit, Ghost Face, was in diptych-like, post-decadence tilt.
For this house had already fallen, as it were, its vacuity-begotten spirits begging analogously spirited usherings-in.
And so were their desires fulfilled.
The exhibit, curated by Dave Bates, is divided between two spaces. To one side, in the basement of a former elementary school, is where most of the artworks are displayed. To the other, in a centrally de-pewed church, is where musical performances were going on, and where a certain installation kept things discretely flowing, so to speak.
Note: Both sides were outfitted with bars for the evening. How wonderfully denaturing.
Although the basement space seems to need either a lot more lighting or a lot less to really complement the works displayed, the pieces do nonetheless work quite well in the subterranean dank of their surroundings. Ben Godward's deliquescently god-forsaken tree-like sculpture, for instance, Shame and Fortune (pictured above), stands properly therein with its seemingly mold-bedecked branch-like nubs, looming like a quasi-arboreal prophet of post-organica. Catercorner from Ben's piece is a work by Brent Owens, a sprawling, joint-snarled, limb-wrangly sculptural riddle that sits well in a corner on its own. Between those two pieces, and along the same diagonal, is a sculpture by Audrey Hasen Russell, who cleverly appropriated some warped 'waste'-scotting found onsite into her work. Adam Parker Smith's realistically rendered puppy dog sculpture sounds like it would be out of its element but certainly is not (see below), while his death-by-Viagra doorguy-ghost begs no such questions. Its ever-so-subtle protrusion might beg something else, though. How fitting, in this case, the term low-relief.
On the walls, Don Pablo Pedro's scroll painting of exo-anally piquant, appendage-rich, bicephalopod humanoid grace, and William Powhida's parodically (or not) heartfelt statements of sangfroid misgivings (or not)—exquisite renderings existing somewhere between drawing and writing, or likely intentionally confusing the two—hang in thematic harmony.
In the walls, then, Fabio Ernesto Corredor's reddened cavern installation hums a similarly imperfectly pitched—in all the right ways—tune.
On that note, over on the church side, where bands were playing before a strobe-lit altar, listeners migrated the darkness from the nave to the aisle to fess up, so to speak, in Andrew Ohanesian's Mandies, a rigorously rendered confessional outfitted with the variable trappings of a bar (or vice-versa). Andrew has built and rebuilt this piece—always a prodigious endeavor, as I understand—in a number of different venues, and it is always impressive, always a crowd favorite.
It is possible, however, that is has never had such a perfectly welcoming—in structural terms, at least—host.
Regarding the variably curious exhibit, I suggested last week that you really shouldn't miss it. That suggestion still holds. It seems its durational timeline has changed, though. So check it out this weekend before it vanishes.
Information about closing events here.
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