Article

The fall art season is cranking up: tasty new shows and events beckon from every side like the nozzles at a frozen yogurt bar —and the gummy worms on top were the 56 booths at this years' early edition of the Texas Contemporary Art Fair.

On the red carpet with the VIP crowd at the George R. Brown Convention Center.

Are you the type to ask an artist: "Can you recommend an art consultant who might know if you’re any good or not?"

At the opening, DJ Thin Mint dressed as the Nance-costumed "Yeti" stole the show. It was a “What the hell is going on here?” kind of thing.

I’ll restate something, for the umpteenth time: People in the art community here are too polite.

After the beach, old times are Galveston's main attraction. Tintypes and a new Wild West Village pull visitors back into the 19th century, sort of.

Bill Davenport, Rainey Knudson, and Christina Rees go on location to count down our favorite public artworks in the state.

On the eve of her big CAMH show, Houston artist and Glasstire contributor Carrie Marie Schneider's guerilla post shows how it might have been.

While I am a huge fan of performance art, there were some issues here

The intensity and ego-wrangling within art collectives makes them nearly impossible to sustain for very long, so the loss of Homecoming as we know it comes as no surprise.

The Louise Bourgeois Spider had already been removed, but it was easy to imagine it dragging a struggling, web-wrapped Sam Houston into the reflecting pool.

Bonnie “Prince” Billy performed at the Crowley Theater as Kareem James Abu-Zeid read at Marfa Book Company. Walter Benjamin looked on.

Normally, Houston's esplanades are winding islands of no-man's land. True North adds public sculptures aimed at pleasing regular folks out for a jog or on their way to Walgreens.

Employing strategies of plagiarism, cut-and-paste, and a general denial of authorship, uncreative writers are less interested in actual writing than in curating words that are usually not their own. Because of this, most uncreative writing is, Goldsmith proclaims, unreadable.

Rosenberg crafts laborious replicas of everyday objects then relentlessly ruins them with glops of glue, foam fragments, paint, and trash in his manic, scattershot show.

Many of the greatest avant-garde breakthroughs of the twentieth century were being incubated in the kindergarten classrooms of the nineteenth.

It's a sunny summer show, but these aren't playful kids indulging sweet-toothed fancies.

That’s the era we live in: No blank walls no matter how desperate or cheap we may be. Are blank walls that bad?

The works do not demonstrate compelling draftsmanship – not every scribble can be sweet-talked into a masterpiece.

America is over, and the last stand of our compromised, imperial American identity is being staged here at the bottom of the nation.