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In July, Universal NoD gallery saw an action of parental activists fighting for the emancipation of art within the family. Their manifesto attempted to convince us that artists/parents were being oppressed by a mass of lonely and antisocial artists/non-parents. These goons have too much time for their art and self-promotion through various excesses and are too easily able to win the artistic award of Pantheon. The exhibition imitated fatherly might and motherly post-coital provocation. Lenka Klodová, the provocateur and artist impossible to control, stood out in the show with her pornographic variations and metaphors, which have disturbed a number of curatorial projects. This time she showed Islands of Desire — origami constructed out of pornographic lust and installed according to the law of the jungle.
The best works shown at the exhibition Magnetic Fields in Gallery Jelení stole the show, confounding the original concept by the curatorial unit. The best of the bunch were by ostensible curator Vladimír Skrepl with his cat fur hanging from the ceiling (Cat Killer) and Josef Bolf with his misty painting of cutsies communicating in a utopian meadow plateau.
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The editors of Umělec have decided to come up with a list of ten artists who, in our opinion, were of crucial importance for the Czech art scene in the 1990s. After long debate and the setting of criteria, we arrived at a list of names we consider significant for the local context, for the presentation of Czech art outside the country and especially for the future of art. Our criteria did not…
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Contents of the new issue.
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If you know your way around, you might discover that every month and maybe even every week you stand the chance to receive money for your cultural project. Successful applicants have enough money, average applicants have enough to keep their mouths shut, and the unsuccessful ones are kept in check by the chance that they might get lucky in the future. One natural result has been the emergence of…
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Nick Land was a British philosopher but is no longer, though he is not dead. The almost neurotic fervor with which he scratched at the scars of reality has seduced more than a few promising academics onto the path of art that offends in its originality. The texts that he has left behind are reliably revolting and boring, and impel us to castrate their categorization as “mere” literature.
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