Casey Gregory

Nine male, gay artists explore taboos- not necessarily large cultural ones, but personal taboos ingrained through a lifetime of self-judgment.

The gesture of extending a bouquet to women lost and forgotten is a lovely one, but being tethered to housework seems less of a problem today than the thigh gap craze or persistent male/female wage discrepancies.

We can enter Lê's semi-permeable walls of the past only with our eyes, much in the way we construct a memory: lacy bits of fact forming a vague half-truth in our minds.

Cohesion isn't the main issue here; it's that not one of those voices is distinct enough to give the show form. I found myself checking and re-checking labels to try to understand who was who.

It feels like a high-wire act; Bates' best works feel intuitive, almost accidental, because the accumulation of decades of experience has afforded him that leisure.

It’s akin to that moment in a sceney restaurant when you hear the fifth song that is also on your iPad and you realize…oh, they’re marketing to me.

Bianconi entered a black duct-taped box. The box started jerking, being punched or kicked from the inside. Crisply folded white paper airplanes launched from within began peppering the wine-plied room.

A porthole through which we experience Bontecou’s preoccupation with disaster and instability, on the blade-thin line between attraction and revulsion.

The vaguely acrid smell of burlap lurks in Sicardi Gallery’s sleek rooms. It's a bit of a departure from Sicardi’s usual beautiful-but-cold aesthetic.