Neil Fauerso

There is an alchemic energy in the pieces, the collage of disparate materials fuse into mysterious and enticing portals. The white walls of the gallery space become infinite.

This is not a straight polemic, but rather something more removed and elusive.

The show has a torque to it, an energy, like a suspension bridge.

It is fitting that the modest yet noble Rice Gallery should conclude its run with a show that really demonstrates how much you can do with a single room.

The show, featuring a Texas, an American, and a New Zealand artist is strikingly resonant and cohesive, and steeped in community and demarcation.

I realized that for a few days I hadn’t really read the news, hadn’t really felt afraid, hadn’t really felt enraged.

We headed out via I-10 for a weekend of transcendent music, provocative art, and the recurring experience of wondering whether you are actually seeing Father John Misty everywhere or whether there are just 35 dudes around you who all look exactly like Father John Misty.

My feeling of dread has been validated in a series of grotesque tableaus that have been almost elegant in their cruelty and stupidity. I believe we are living in the universe of Greenaway’s masterpiece 'The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover.'

What I refer to when I use “twisted” is art that casually, bracingly depicts the depravity and cruelty of existence with wryness, elegance and awe.

The installation contains multitudes: stasis, anticipation, movement and memory.

Jacobs is an aesthetic wizard; there's a refinement to these works that renders them intrinsically alluring. But he does not mask his outrage.

Some people are simply wittier than others. Zhang's show clicks as a study of ridiculousness and exasperation at being alive, being human, being flightless.

Welcome to the fourth installment of Studio Sounds, where I share some music I’ve been enjoying in my studio recently, often broken into four categories.

In a display of stammering unctuousness, the liberal film industry decided that a proper atonement for years of racist caricatures was to depict indigenous people as literal angels.

I hope you can find some time to give these tracks spin in your studios, wherever and whatever they may be.

This is the second installment of Studio Sounds. I hope you can find some time to give these records a spin in your studios (whatever they might be).

Something for your hours in the studio: Resident concert organizer, DJ, critic and label-founder Neil Fauerso lets us in on the best music he's heard lately.

When you enter the fedora-bro black hole of infinite out-of-touchedness, you never get to come back. And it looks like the Oscars are going there this year.

When you see something horrible, a painting is created that hangs in your mind until you die.

Something mystical happens, the asshole rings a bell and screams Merry Christmas! The end.