Poems by Losarc Raal for Tamas Panitz’s Steak Phase

The space of Herrera’s paintings is not the real space we “inhabit” in the gallery or otherwise, but rather the illusory world of images and vision. Hers is the dream ground which, for over hundreds of years, artists have used to tell us stories, to perpetuate the likeness of people and landscapes, or reflect their feelings and visions materialized in objects.

Barry Schwabsky brings us Alberto Savinio's memories of the poet and painter Max Jacob.

There is a richness in color and fullness of form in these works that drew me into them immediately, and held me there. Within them, colors and shapes seem to crumble and grind together, the complexions plow through each other and themselves.

It’s hard to be the Museum of Modern Art when the modern has become a thing of the past and a rather suspect thing at that.

Hugo Skarstedt reviews Sanya Kantarovsky’s “Recent Faces” at Luhring Augustine Tribeca

But what of the museums themselves? The artworks, their placement, the hallways, the exhibits, the choreography of passing through?

The layered surface cascades into itself as quickly as it interrupts itself. It vibrates like a field of electricity, full of chaos and psychedelic apparitions, and yet is held together by an arresting unity which appears to emerge at once from above and below — that is, it appears as calculated as it does spontaneous.