Jules Buck Jones comes off a bit like a wild child. Formality doesn’t interest him. It’s easier to picture him perched in the canopy of a forest than standing on the concrete floor of a white-cube gallery.
Feature
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Valdez's narrative is an allegory for the physical, emotional, and spiritual journeys faced by all human beings as we move through life.
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No one would have played along if Duchamp pointed at the urinal in situ and said it was art.
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When I heard they were going to put a woman on the $10 bill, my first thought was: Emily Dickinson. (My second thought was: can’t we get rid of Andrew Jackson instead?)
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Our special guest star this week is Jennie Ash, Visual Arts Director at Art League Houston!! Like everything else, the Top Five is always better in a British accent. Jennie joined Rainey Knudson on a wet day at Project Row Houses to count down this week's list!
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Ed. note: In recognition of International Women's Day and the Day Without Women Strike, Glasstire re-posts this popular archived essay by one of Houston's most respected artists, who also happens to be a mother.
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When does a young adult’s anti-intellectualism morph into something that it smells more like cynical political maneuvering?
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EssayOp Ed
Crossing Benjamin’s Border: Rereading “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”
by Michael Biseby Michael BiseAs artists and writers, when we type in our usernames and passwords and enter into the near-mythic reproducibility of social media, we must never forget that our job is to remain rigorously critical in the face of distraction.
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Is this art? Is that a stupid question?
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The collected objects mingle, and the stories behind the objects create patterns, and the collection taken as a whole sends out the impression of luckiness in book form.
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This week we got hard-hitting Latinos, clever women and a late-blooming name changer.
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The resulting images are not the flashiest works, but they reward prolonged looking and would appeal to formalist junkies.
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To non-creative people, this must look nuts.
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To an outsider, the A&M campus feels unattractive, humorless and a little silly. And yet: there really is a palpable, profoundly likeable sense of honor at the place.
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The idea for the majority of the work comes from a relationship the artist has with another abandoned building: a magnificently damaged 1930s warehouse with its waves of dramatically buckled flooring.
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This week: a show that shrinks itself, a show that freezes things, and couple of shows that give us that fuzzy TBT feeling.
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We are treated to what feels like an all-nighter fueled by an excessive intake of ecstasy and coke. You start out having fun, you imagine there is no one sexier than you are, and then hours later you’re crying blood.
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I attended a new writers’ conference in Minneapolis over the weekend, hosted by the Walker Art Center. It was called “Superscript: Arts Journalism and Criticism in a Digital Age.”
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Jesse Amado calls on many forms and precedents for his current show — Pop art, Minimalism, Color Field painting, Conceptual art—as well as his recent experiences with illness and treatment.
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So the show is a push and pull between what is inherent to a space, and what the individual inhabiting the space constructs for himself.