The water pulls back, and what’s left is slippery, cracked, glinting. That weird moment between golden hour and blackout, when things look extra real and extra fake. That’s where this show lives. Five artists, five different bets, no time for niceties. You either lean in or you don’t show up. This isn’t some clean white cube situation. This is a sunburn, a smear, a sharp inhale.
Connor Crawford is coming in with a relief of a horse. It’s stiff, proud, heavy with symbolism. The animal’s got presence. Drama. Weird dignity. Maybe it’s collapsing under its own myth. Maybe it’s charging straight through.
Nik Geene throws up an air conditioner like it’s no big deal. Feels good, kind of wrong. It’s part climate control, part punk flyer, part stoned prophecy. Rumor has it the other half, air intake, is installed in another city. Looks like it shouldn’t be there but that’s the point. Just this ugly box whispering sweet nothings about freedom and fallout. Total vibe.
Nanna Kaiser goes full plastic and latex, see-through, sticky, breathing weird. The surface sweats. You want to grab it, but your hands are gross. It’s soft, yeah, but don’t mistake it for gentle.
Dan Vogt drops a sculpture of a saluting boy, candy-slick, kitschy, deeply unnerving. He holds open his mouth for your cigarette. Light up and pay your respects. It’s patriotic. It’s pathetic. It’s a perversion.
Christophe de Rohan Chabot is full rhinestone overload. Sparkle-as-shield. Surface as spectacle. It’s shameless, a little desperate, and absolutely gorgeous. It dares you to dismiss it, but you won’t.
This isn’t a “conversation” between practices. It’s a dirty, sandy pile-up. Everyone’s elbows are out. No one’s taking turns. It’s too late to chill. The vibe is: hit it hard, light it up, and see who’s still standing when the sun disappears. You feel lucky? Doesn’t matter. You’re in it now.
