Don't Talk. I Can't Hear Myself See.

The Last Time Money Left The Art World, Intrepid Types Maxed Out Their Credit Cards And Opened Galleries, And A Few Of Them Have Become The Best In The World.

Too Many Younger Artists, Critics, And Curators Are Fetishizing The Sixties, Transforming The Period Into A Deformed Cult, A Fantasy Religion, A Hip Brand, And A Crippling Disease.

Photography Is The Easiest Thing To Make, And One Of The Hardest Things To Make Well.

Probably Only An Art-worlder Like Me Could Assign Deeper Meaning To Something As Simple And Silly As Tebowing. But, To Us, Anytime People Repeat A Stance Or A Little Dance, Alone Or Together, We See That It Can Mean Something. Imagistic And Unspoken Language Is Our Thing.

Mark Grotjahn's Large New Paintings Abound With Torrents Of Ropy Impasto, Laid Down In Thickets, Cascading Waves, And Bundles That Swell, Braid Around, Or Overlap One Another.