I will drink my turpentine, eat paint, and take up with a drug-addled prostitute. If the country believes that Bush is right, then I'd rather be wrong. I mean really wrong.

Despite my longing for a short, brutish life and a solitary death, I managed to drag my friend K, who just moved to Queens after a disastrous series of events following college on this month's excursion. He expatriated to Dublin to pursue his dream of becoming Irish. Unfortunately, they wouldn't just put him on the dole, and he ended up waiting tables for tips miles from the unheated shack he lived in with three, quite authentic Irish alcoholics who tortured my hapless friend. He ended up home shortly before Christmas that same year before starting a long journey through several aborted careers and a doomed relationship. Now, he's moved into a place in Queens without a job, and if you know anyone who desperately needs a place to live for a month, fire me an email. K is looking for someone to pay the rent until he finds a job. While he struggles to be upwardly mobile, I am in a free fall.

31 Grand
At one point, K stops in front of Mike Cockrill's painting and cocks his head like a dog that has just heard something beyond our range of hearing. I am looking at the same paintings of little boys and girls he is, but I am not seeing it. Cockrill's pastel-hued, patchy updates of Norman Rockwell are the kind of saccharine objects that will definitely kill Williamsburg. Call it cancer of the eye.
I'm sure there are more K's out there who will like Cockrill's visual metaphors of sexual innocence and the loss thereof, but I just found his paintings of little girls in dresses a bit creepy. There's no question Cockrill can paint, the large canvasses can be seductive, but his soft-focus facility tastes like coolwhip. I couldn't look at K after leaving the place. I wanted to bitch slap him and call him names.
(1 Greenberg. "then again" is attracting dudes with hairy legs in long jackets through November 14th.)

Roebling Hall

Someone should have told me Roebling Hall closed and a Haunted House opened up for the holiday. I almost asked how much it cost to see Doug Young's spooky art. My nominal favorite was his tableaux of a tree inhabited by some sort of alien birds. The thing shakes a bit, lights up, and chirps. It's far better than the goofy, Hallmark-esque haunted castle diorama or the 'ghost mirror'. There's also a curtained corner that makes noises and a giant castle on a hill that flashes not so ominously with lightning. The entire installation is garishly over the top, channeling everything from Dracula to War of the Worlds. It's hopelessly silly. I really don't like to trash things for being 'theatrical', but this thing is pure camp. K seemed to see the light on this one.
(1 Greenberg. The thing looses any seasonal charm after Halloween, but it'll be there long after…)

Black and White Gallery
1950 called and Abstract Expressionism wants its paintings back. Why? Why? I have no answers. Well, maybe. These are like buying 'antique finish' furniture. Hang them right above your art deco inspired couch.
(0 Greenbergs. Andrew Piedilato is smearing paint until November 29th)

Jack the Pelican
So, K wouldn't even go into Black and White. He simply couldn't believe his eyes. We retreated to the Pelican to see Michelle Handelman's multimedia installation, This Delicate Monster. K went right back into dog mode, this time waiting expectantly for some nudity with his mouth open. I figured Handelman's masked women were more interested in their own desire than ours. The color-coded beauties inhabit a world free of men like us who watched them crawl about in open fields and pant heavily with great interest. At some point, K says, "I'm watching this because I want to have sex with the girl in the black mask." Simply shocked and outraged by his comment I told him to leave the gallery.

Right.
Handelman's nonlinear narrative is overtly about desire. The women travel through an uninhabited countryside devoid of men. Apparently, Handelman and her character's perform on Saturday's in the gallery, involving a vitrine in at the front of the space. Most of the story is told through two videos, one of which is staggered and mirrored on three flat screens, and a large scale projection in the back space. There are accompanying photographs that add to the storyline, which is pretty much a utopian fantasy. I got a kick out it and I think Mick Cockrill should drop by and see what this crazy development called feminism is.
(3 1/2 Greenbergs. This Delicate Monster is getting off through November 21st)

Cinders
Someone over there sends me an e-mail to check it out. I almost couldn't bring myself to go inside. I have an irrational distaste for little stores that also show art. Well, the work wasn't horrible. I actually kind of liked the animal theme going on in Little Might Big. Well, Leslie Harding's drawings of mutant voles, were exquisitely rendered, but they kind of just passed me by. I was far more interested in Tina Mullen's poignant (what the fuck? Did I even think that word?) little doodles of crows. "What Crows Think" captures the off-handed romanticism of the work. They've got a bit of Poe in them. I don't know what to say about "Curious" George Ferrandi's monkey installation. Way too illustrative for me. Sorry. I slapped K's hand away from the merchandise.
(2 Greenbergs. Little Might Big is doing its best in a store through, eh, no date on the old press release.)

Front Room
So, K basically looks around and gives me this look that says "Can you believe this crap? It's all so, topical." I ignored the bastard and tried to be, what do you call it, interactive. I voted for cream pie over Ann Coulter in Mark Esper's boob- trapped work. I still voted Williamsburg 'hot' even though its clearly 'not' in Ann Cypcar's survey. I shredded some votes in a couple of works. The best moment I had in the gallery was reading some jackass's musings in Eric Hollender's piece. The anonymous voter opined "I wish I never . . . came in here" and "I wish I was. . . a hip, Williamsburg artist". I was deeply saddened that nobody, particularly Tim Wilson, nominated me for William Powhida's public enemies list.

Well, to ensure that I make it next time, fuck you all. I deserve to win. It's hard work being an asshole. Ask the President.

I did notice someone nominated the publisher of 11211, Breuk Iverson, but I actually dug his little Orwellian entry. His empty ballot box has some pretty right-on instructions for the future of voting in the 'homeland'. Let's just call it the 'fatherland' and stop pretending. I should have voted for Iverson as a public enemy, but his work redeemed him. Also, Daniel Aycock's entry, a black sleeping mask adorned with the words 'blissfully unaware' is where I'm headed. Anyway, K seemed bored, and I couldn't get into the politics considering that it's all bullshit. I'll never vote again, and I refuse to even consider helping anyone or anything. I'm going to be even worse than I've been in the past. No one should count on me. I'll push an old lady into the street.
(2 1/2 Greenbergs. Send your Republican friends, you know bankers and shit, to Front Room before November 21st)

Ch'I
After years of refusing to enter this place on merit (it was somewhere in that monster building on Kent and its name) I stopped by the new digs. While it currently looks like a Zebra the new space could replace the hated Bellwether nicely. They've just got to stop the madness and lose the new age hokum. I felt like lighting incense in the joint and chanting.
(1/2 Greenberg. Sun K. Kwak. Oh shit. He's going to be working on the walls through the 15th. )

Parker's Box
I guess I should call it Eyewash. In fact, the show New American Story Art is dedicated to Annie Herron, one of the founders of Eyewash, who recently passed away. While I never had the pleasure of meeting Annie, I have heard she helped put Williamsburg on the map. I'd have nothing to bitch about if it weren't for people like her. We owe her our gratitude.

The show itself is arguably the best show this month. It's got some heavy hitters, Sue Coe and Dotty Attie, doing their familiar narrative work. Coe's 9-11 print is disarming even as it is heavy-handed, but she's not known for her subtlety. Attie's film-noir detective montage is competently executed if a little robotic. K seemed a bit in awe of the show, particularly drawn in by David Kramer's polished cynicism. Of course I like it. There are too many great lines to quote, and reading his typed monologues felt something like thinking. The drawings are serviceable, but the action is in the text. Jim Torok's water-color storyboard of the nearly unwatchable "Lust for Life" inspired my opening. Torok's deadpan humor is awesome. Just fucking awesome. There's some other stuff, and apparently there were some videos and performances, but who can go out on a Thursday. Hmmm. Maybe I should quit my shitty job and jumpstart the downward spiral. I heard Larry Krone's musical performance in drag was pretty damn funny and enemies list boy Wiliam Powhida had a spot on video about the pitfalls of being a critic and an artist. My friend says I should really see it. Fuck that, I didn't get nominated. Nobody knows my pain, man.

(4 Greenbergs. New American Story Art despite its generic moniker is saying some great things through the 14th.)



WAH Center
I think this show could have been good. Maybe. The title is pure bullshit. Get this. Breakthrough as Process and Art: Psychological Archeology. Right. The only thing process oriented about this show is that like most art, there is a process. This show is about narrative, figurative painting. There's a freaky painting of mermaids at the end and giant floating head at the front that are almost worth the walk. In the middle there's a painting by someone famous, I think, but that's about it. The sculptures of bodies being compressed or tortured aren't all bad. K didn't even look at the art. He couldn't get over what a shithole the gallery space was.
(1 1/2 Greenbergs. Pretension hangs in the air through November 7th.)

The Place Next to Priska
Oh my god. I am speechless. K gave these Pointillism meets Turner nightscapes a chance. I tried not to laugh out loud and sob uncontrollably at the same time. Call me a NIMBY, but please, don't let the neighborhood become like those crappy faux art galleries in Soho. I left K to call my cell to find out where I had gone. I have never wished for an electrical fire before.
(-1 Greenberg. Yes, it can get worse than a 0.)

Priska
Pretty, geometric systems that are equal parts early Star Trek and playful abstraction. Danielle Tegeder's work is immediately familiar, and sure it's definitely derivative, but compared to the nostalgic Romantic art next door, she comes across like a creative genius. Tegeder might not be, but the central installation is icily beautiful, and her narrative titles are worth reading. K didn't seemed to thrilled by them, but just seeing them was like breathing for me. I generally hate systemic things, but Tegeder's work has lovely details and her hand remains evident in the process.
(3 Greenbergs. Death Rock City is shimmering like a pretty bauble through December 6th)

Southfirst Art
Perhaps they're moving? Don't get my hopes up.

Lunar Base
Carol Anne, stay away from the light!

Pierogi
Let me say how much I hate science as art. There's a bunch of molds and a really long thesis behind this show that sounds an awful like the ironic baloney of post-modern narrative fiction. There's actually a book that goes along with the show with a lot of contributions from writers. You lost me at the press release. K seemed genuinely hurt.
(1 Greenberg for effort. Decipherment of Linear X is baffling those art shoppers through November 15th)

Momenta Art
Swing and a miss.
(1/2 Greenberg. Whatever it is, conceptual stuff about observation, is drying for awhile)

Naked Duck
Indie-Rock star art. I guess Art in America said something about it.
(1 Greenberg. Series 2+3 is also over at Brooklyn Fire Proof through November 21st)

RKL Gallery
As I passed by the window, I saw some landscapes that just didn't have enough gravity, you know?
(1 1/2 Greenbergs for the artists. It closed.)

Plus Ultra
Kate Gilmore's installation of the wreckage of a broken heart and the accompanying video doesn't just capture the physical and emotional toll of a failed relationship; it is also effectively captures how I feel about everything. Gilmore hacks away at a suspended, ramshackle heart until she is battered and bruised. The 16 minute video is captivating, and I couldn't stop watching her break shit. If reading David Kramer was like thinking, watching Gilmore was like feeling. The work aches. It's also pretty funny, but I'm just not feeling so fucking funny right now. I'm going to have to start keeping a bottle of tums behind the bar.
(3 1/2 Greenbergs. If My Shoes Matched My Dress I Could Destroy You is up through the 15th. )

Schroeder Romero
Booty is an ambitious sculptural installation by Marsha Pels that draws inspiration from the looted Iraqi museums. Pels fell in love with the Mesopotamian objects when they traveled to the states a couple of years ago. Now, they like self-determination are missing. Pels transforms the beautiful objects into political commentary about our own Imperialist foreign policy. The big necklace in the center of the gallery is a stunning piece, but the rest of it doesn't do a whole lot for me. Still, the necklace and the attendant gasmask/ancient warrior helmets are pretty amazing. K didn't get much out of it, but then again, he like Mick Cockrill's work.

That's it. I'm getting ready to start being the fuck up I knew I could be. As a young Pepper, my moms took me to see a Polish language movie about a dysfunctional family that burns their house to ground rather than conform to the strict conservative values of the close-minded town. I've never felt so much like torching my shitty, overpriced shack and following the train tracks to parts unknown, except then I realize there's almost nowhere else to go in this wretched land. If I was agnostic before Bush Part II, now I am an atheist. I deny the very existence of God. You hear me you mid-life crisis converts. Where'd you find Jesus? At Walmart? There is no one to save you from yourselves.

Alright kids, Keane will probably be dead soon from cadmium poisoning or something. Till next month. Oh, I'm thinking of curating a show. Send me images.
Galleries, who's crazy?