Like all good New Yorkers should, we dragged ourselves uptown to the museum this weekend, saw Kara Walker exhibit at the Whitney, she of conflicted MacArthur status and deathly brutal but still, uh, brutal slavery narratives. Read the non-art-knowing art vibes and art thoughts of some art after that little jump. And sometime before it closes in February, go see Kara Walker: My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love, too. It's pay what you want on Fridays!
The recent New Yorker article about Jeffery Deitch had him speaking of, not lamenting, not praising, the change in the way art is viewed because of the internet. The physical presence of a piece of art, he says, just isn't nearly as crucial to the inherent and encompassing worth of art any longer. We tested this, went to the Whitney to see Kara Walker's exhibit My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love and we were glad to be closer than touching distance to her enormous narrative cut outs of slavery and racism. It's not just seeing the modern version of an art older than daguerreotype, silhouette of larger than life Uncle Tom shit out a baby tied to him by umbilical cord, it's the the fact when you stand up next to it you can see the edges peeling off the wall and you know that this was there, that first it was in Kara Walker's brain and then in her hands and then in a box somewhere, very carefully delivered to the Whitney where she must have come to, supervised and okay'd and then they had an opening and many people came before me and the humidity from the warm fall and all the people visiting was too much for whatever industrial art glue they used and that little edge of elbow couldn't stay on and we were glad to stand beside that tiny little jutting because it just wouldn't be the same on a laptop. It's nice to be a part of something, you know?