My
friend Stephen Lapthisophon, who I’ve mentioned before, gave a talk the other
day in conjunction with his exhibition at Conduit, and catalog release for it.
His speaking style is much like his work: fast, loose, and funny, with a
relaxed rigor and depth that few can authentically pull off, without seeming
like pretentious asses. He never does, though his work brims with arcane
references to European philosophical lore, along with reappraisals of familiar
arch-Modernist tropes (Tatlin’s tower, Marinetti’s recipes, Beuys’ cross, and
Kounellis’ arrows, to name a few poetically coexisting on one wall). I
personally feel more lost at sea with his allusions to 90’s R&B hits (I
couldn’t name a Tony! Toni! Tone’! song if my life depended on it. And don’t get Stephen started about Kanye…)
He’s
filled the front room with framed collage paintings, and you see where the
title of the show comes from: “Writing
Art Cinema
1977-2007.” Fritz Lang gets name dropped, along with “Roma, Torino, Milano”
with an inky vinyl record in another work, conjuring images of La Dolce Vita
and Anita Ekberg crying “Marcello!”. I love painting time, and I love movie
time, but they are quite different. The two are married and play off each other
here, alongside music time, book time, drawing time and writing time. Time is
of the essence.
Collaged newspaper’s subtly different rates of yellowing are
utilized for distinct tones against each other. Distant past collides with
current radio information, ingested and spat out in process. An old telegraph
gets pinned next to an email. A photograph of a concert seen last week is
framed next to a painting from 30 years ago. The way time moves back, forward,
stops and starts, flows and eddies, is life, and the heart of this work. Time
is its playful concern. So is loss, and forgetting; but no more so than
rediscovery and remembering. Like the 50’s style record player Stephen bought
at Target recently, everything’s lost, and everything’s found – casually,
passionately, curiously, right now.
(saw the usual suspects: your very own Dee Mitchell)
I
haven’t really been great about making the gallery rounds lately. I have been
catching the shows of friends (of which there have been a happy plethora), and in at least one case, lover’s. My wife
Raychael just had her solo show open the other week. Thought I’d embrace the
nepotism and show a couple pictures.
